3  121001851  6060 


LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
RIVERSIDE 


THE  WORKS  OF 
EUGENE  FIELD 

VoLV 


THE  WRITINGS  IN 
PROSE  AND  VERSE 
OF  EUGENE  FIELD 


"•T'HEJJOLY  CROSS 
1    *   AND    OTHER 

"  Ytf  q  alinsg  £  yd  i»vom  z«w  ^fuscmioo  atoriw  9riL/I 

TALES    $>    55 


n*V  .W  2 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS^t  NEW  YORK  ^J903 


"Presently  the  whole  company  was  rru  v:  >d  by  a  gentle  pH  " 
Drawn  by  S   W.  Vr. 


THE  WRITINGS  IN 
PROSE  AND  VERSE 

OF  EUGENE  FIELD 
ui 


THE  jjOLY  CROSS 
*  AND    OTHER 
TALES    *    *     *     * 


CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S 
SONS  \  NEW  YORK  \  1 903 


W03 


Copyright,  1893,  by 
EUGENE  FIELD. 


Copyright,  1896,  by 
JULIA  SUTHERLAND  FIELD. 


DEDICATED  WITH  LOVE 
AND  GRATITUDE  TO 
ROSWELL  MARTIN  FIELD 


NOTE. 


To  this  volume  as  it  was  originally  issued  have  been 
added  five  Tales,  beginning  with  "  The  Platonic 
Bassoon,"  which  are  characteristic  of  the  various 
moods,  serious,  gay,  or  pathetic,  out  of  which  grew 
the  best  work  of  the  author's  later  years. 


INTRODUCTION 

ALAS,  POOR  YORICK! 

IN  paying  a  tribute  to  the  mingled  mirth 
and  tenderness  of  Eugene  Field — the  poet 
of  whose  going  the  West  may  say, "  He  took 
our  daylight  with  him  "  —  one  of  his  fellow 
journalists  has  written  that  he  was  a  jester, 
but  not  of  the  kind  that  Shakespeare  drew 
in  Yorick.  He  was  not  only, —  so  the  writer 
implied, — the  maker  of  jibes  and  fantastic 
devices,  but  the  bard  of  friendship  and  affec 
tion,  of  melodious  lyrical  conceits;  he  was  the 
laureate  of  children — dear  for  his  "  Wynken, 
Blynken  and  Nod  "  and  "  Little  Boy  Blue"  ; 
the  scholarly  book-lover,  withal,  who  rel 
ished  and  paraphrased  his  Horace,  who 
wrote  with  delight  a  quaint  archaic  English 
of  his  special  devising;  who  collected  rare 
books,  and  brought  out  his  own  "Little 
Books"  of  "Western  Verse"  and  "Profi- 


INTRODUCTION 

table  Tales  "  in  high-priced  limited  editions, 
with  broad  margins  of  paper  that  moths  and 
rust  do  not  corrupt,  but  which  tempts  biblio 
maniacs  to  break  through  and  steal. 

For  my  own  part,  I  would  select  Yorick 
as  the  very  forecast,  in  imaginative  literature, 
of  our  various  Eugene.  Surely  Shakespeare 
conceived  the  "mad  rogue"  of  Elsinore  as 
made  up  of  grave  and  gay,  of  wit  and  gentle 
ness,  and  not  as  a  mere  clown  or  "jig 
maker."  It  is  true  that  when  Field  put  on 
his  cap  and  bells,  he  too  was  "  wont  to  set 
the  table  on  a  roar,"  as  the  feasters  at  a  hun 
dred  tables,  from  "Casey's  Table  d'Hote" 
to  the  banquets  of  the  opulent  East,  now 
rise  to  testify.  But  Shakespeare  plainly  re 
veals,  concerning  Yorick,  that  mirth  was  not 
his  sole  attribute, — that  his  motley  covered 
the  sweetest  nature  and  the  tenderest  heart. 
It  could  be  no  otherwise  with  one  who  loved 
and  comprehended  childhood  and  whom  the 
children  loved.  And  what  does  Hamlet 
say  ? —  "He  hath  borne  me  upon  his  back  a 
thousand  times  .  .  .  Here  hung  those 
lips  that  I  have  kissed  I  know  not  how  oft!  " 
Of  what  is  he  thinking  but  of  his  boyhood, 


INTRODUCTION 

before  doubts  and  contemplation  wrapped 
him  in  the  shadow,  and  when  in  his  young 
grief  or  frolic  the  gentle  Yorick,  with  his 
jest,  his  "excellent  fancy,"  and  his  songs 
and  gambols,  was  his  comrade  ? 

Of  all  moderns,  then,  here  or  in  the  old 
world,  Eugene  Field  seems  to  be  most  like 
the  survival,  or  revival,  of  the  ideal  jester  of 
knightly  times;  as  if  Yorick  himself  were 
incarnated,  or  as  if  a  superior  bearer  of  the 
bauble  at  the  court  of  Italy,  or  of  France,  or 
of  English  King  Hal,  had  come  to  life  again 

—  as  much  out  of  time  as  Twain's  Yankee 
at  the  Court  of  Arthur;  but  not  out  of  place, 
— for  he  fitted  himself  as  aptly  to  his  folk 
and  region  as  Puck  to  the  fays  and  mortals 
of  a  wood  near  Athens.     In  the  days  of  di 
vine  sovereignty,  the  jester,  we  see,  was  by 
all  odds  the  wise  man  of  the  palace;  the 
real  fools  were  those  he  made    his  butt 

—  the  foppish  pages,  the  obsequious  cour 
tiers,  the  swaggering  guardsmen,  the  inso 
lent  nobles,  and  not  seldom  majesty  itself. 
And  thus  it  is  that  painters  and  romancers 
have  loved  to  draw  him.     Who  would  not 
rather  be  Yorick  than  Osric,  or  Touchstone 


INTRODUCTION 

than  Le  Beau,  or  even  poor  Bertuccio  than 
one  of  his  brutal  mockers  ?  Was  not  the  re 
doubtable  Chicot,  with  his  sword  and  brains, 
the  true  ruler  of  France  ?  To  come  to  the 
jesters  of  history  —  which  is  so  much  less 
real  than  fiction — what  laurels  are  greener 
than  those  of  Triboulet,  and  Will  Somers, 
and  John  Hey  wood  —  dramatist  and  master 
of  the  king's  merry  Interludes  ?  Their  shafts 
were  feathered  with  mirth  and  song,  but 
pointed  with  wisdom,  and  well  might  old 
John  Trussell  say  "That  it  often  happens 
that  wise  counsel  is  more  sweetly  followed 
when  it  is  tempered  with  folly,  and  earnest  is 
the  less  offensive  if  it  be  delivered  in  jest." 
Yes,  Field  "caught  on"  to  his  time  —  a 
complex  American,  with  the  obstreperous 
biqarrerie  of  the  frontier  and  the  artistic 
delicacy  of  our  oldest  culture  always  at  odds 
within  him  —  but  he  was,  above  all,  a  child 
of  nature,  a  frolic  incarnate,  and  just  as  he 
would  have  been  in  any  time  or  country. 
Fortune  had  given  him  that  unforgettable 
mummer's  face, —  that  clean-cut,  mobile 
visage, —  that  animated  natural  mask!  No 
one  else  had  so  deep  and  rich  a  voice  for 


INTRODUCTION 

the  rendering  of  the  music  and  pathos  of  a 
poet's  lines,  and  no  actor  ever  managed  both 
face  and  voice  better  than  he  in  delivering 
his  own  verses  merry  or  sad.  One  night, 
he  was  seen  among  the  audience  at  "  Uncut 
Leaves,"  and  was  instantly  requested  to  do 
something  towards  the  evening's  entertain 
ment.  As  he  was  not  in  evening  dress,  he 
refused  to  take  the  platform,  but  stood  up  in 
the  lank  length  of  an  ulster,  from  his  corner 
seat,  and  recited  "  Dibdin's  Ghost"  and 
' '  Two  Opinions  "  in  a  manner  which  blighted 
the  chances  of  the  readers  that  came  after 
him.  It  is  true  that  no  clown  ever  equalled 
the  number  and  lawlessness  of  his  practical 
jokes.  Above  all,  every  friend  that  he  had 
—  except  the  Dean  of  his  profession,  for 
whom  he  did  exhibit  unbounded  and  filial 
reverence  —  was  soon  or  late  a  victim  of  his 
whimsicality,  or  else  justly  distrusted  the 
measure  of  Field's  regard  for  him.  Nor  was 
the  friendship  perfected  until  one  bestirred 
himself  to  pay  Eugene  back  in  kind.  As  to 
this,  I  am  only  one  of  scores  now  speaking 
from  personal  experience.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  doubt  in  his  mind  that  the  victim  of 
xiii 


INTRODUCTION 

his  fun,  even  when  it  outraged  common  sen 
sibilities,  must  enjoy  it  as  much  as  he.  Who 
but  Eugene,  after  being  the  welcome  guest, 
at  a  European  capital,  of  one  of  our  most 
ambitious  and  refined  ambassadors,  would 
have  written  a  lyric,  sounding  the  praises  of 
a  German  "onion  pie,"  ending  each  stanza 
with 

Ach,  Liebe  !   Ach,  mein  Gott ! 

and  would  have  printed  it  in  America,  with 
his  host's  initials  affixed  ? 

My  own  matriculation  at  Eugene's  College 
of  Unreason  was  in  this  wise.  In  1887,  Mr. 
Ben  Ticknor,  the  Boston  publisher,  was  com 
plaining  that  he  needed  some  new  and  prom 
ising  authors  to  enlarge  his  book-list.  The 
New  York  "  Sun  "  and  "Tribune  "  had  been 
copying  Field's  rhymes  and  prose  extrava 
ganzas —  the  former  often  very  charming, 
the  latter  the  broadest  satire  of  Chicago  life 
and  people.  I  suggested  to  Mr.  Ticknor  that 
he  should  ask  the  poet-humorist  to  collect, 
for  publication  in  book-form,  the  choicest  of 
his  writings  thus  far.  To  make  the  story 
brief,  Mr.  Field  did  so,  and  the  outcome  — 


INTRODUCTION 

at  which  I  was  somewhat  taken  aback  — 
was  the  remarkable  book,  "Culture's  Gar 
land,"  with  its  title  imitated  from  the  senti 
mental  "Annuals  "  of  long  ago,  and  its  cover 
ornamented  with  sausages  linked  together 
as  a  coronal  wreath !  The  symbol  certainly 
fitted  the  greater  part  of  the  contents,  which 
ludicrously  scored  the  Chicago  "  culture  "  of 
that  time,  and  made  Pullman,  Armour,  and 
other  commercial  magnates  of  the  Lakeside 
City  special  types  in  illustration.  All  this  had 
its  use,  and  many  of  the  sufferers  long  since 
became  the  farceur's  devoted  friends.  The 
Fair  showed  the  country  what  Chicago  really 
was  and  is.  Certainly  there  is  no  other  Amer 
ican  city  where  the  richest  class  appear  so 
enthusiastic  with  respect  to  art  and  litera 
ture.  "The  practice  of  virtue  makes  men 
virtuous,"  and  even  if  there  was  some  pre 
tence  and  affectation  in  the  culture  of  ten 
years  ago,  it  has  resulted  in  as  high  standards 
of  taste  as  can  elsewhere  be  found.  More 
over,  if  our  own  "four  hundred"  had  even 
affected,  or  made  it  the  fashion  to  be  inter 
ested  in,  whatever  makes  for  real  culture,  the 
intellectual  life  of  this  metropolis  would  not 
xv 


INTRODUCTION 

now  be  so  far  apart  from  the  "social  swim." 
There  were  scattered  through  "  Culture's 
Garland  "  not  a  few  of  Field's  delicate  bits  of 
verse.  In  some  way  he  found  that  I  had  in 
stigated  Mr.  Ticknor's  request,  and,  although 
I  was  thinking  solely  of  the  publisher's  in 
terests,  he  expressed  unstinted  gratitude. 
Soon  afterwards  I  was  delighted  to  receive 
from  him  a  quarto  parchment  "breviary," 
containing  a  dozen  ballads,  long  and  short, 
engrossed  in  his  exquisitely finehandwriting, 
and  illuminated  with  colored  borders  and 
drawings  by  the  poet  himself.  It  must  have 
required  days  for  the  mechanical  execution, 
and  certainly  I  would  not  now  exchange  it 
for  its  weight  in  diamonds.  This  was  the 
way  our  friendship  began.  It  was  soon 
strengthened  by  meetings  and  correspon 
dence,  and  never  afterwards  broken. 

Some  years  ago,  however,  I  visited  Chi 
cago,  to  lecture,  at  the  invitation  of  its  famous 
social  and  literary  "Twentieth  Century 
Club."  This  was  Eugene's  opportunity,  and 
I  ought  not  to  have  been  as  dumfounded  as  I 
was,  one  day,  when  our  evening  papers 
copied  from  the  "  Chicago  Record  "  a  "  very 


INTRODUCTION 

pleasant  joke  "at  the  expense  of  his  town  and 
myself!  It  was  headed:  "Chicago  Excited! 
Tremendous  Preparations  for  His  Recep 
tion,"  and  went  on  to  give  the  order  and 
route  of  a  procession  that  was  to  be  formed 
at  the  Chicago  station  and  escort  me  to  my 
quarters  —  stopping  at  Armour's  packing- 
yards  and  the  art-galleries  on  the  way.  It 
included  the  "Twentieth  Century  Club  "  in 
carriages,  the  "  Browning  Club"  in  busses, 
and  the  "  Homer  Club  "  in  drays;  ten  mil- 
lionnaire  publishers,  and  as  many  pork- 
packers,  in  a  chariot  drawn  by  white  horses, 
followed  by  not  less  than  two  hundred  Chi 
cago  poets  afoot!  I  have  no  doubt  that 
Eugene  thought  I  would  enjoy  this  kind  of 
advertisement  as  heartily  as  he  did.  If  so, 
he  lacked  the  gift  of  putting  himself  in  the 
other  man's  place.  But  his  sardonic  face, 
a-grin  like  a  school-boy's,  was  one  with  two 
others  which  shone  upon  me  when  I  did 
reach  Chicago,  and  my  pride  was  not 
wounded  sufficiently  to  prevent  me  from  en 
joying  the  restaurant  luncheon  to  which  he 
bore  me  off  in  triumph.  I  did  promise  to 
square  accounts  with  him,  in  time,  and  this 
xvii 


INTRODUCTION 

is  how  I  fulfilled  my  word.  The  next  year, 
at  a  meeting  of  a  suburban  "Society  of 
Authors,"  a  certain  lady-journalist  was 
chaffed  as  to  her  acquaintanceship  with  Field, 
and  accused  of  addressing  him  as  "Gene." 
At  this  she  took  umbrage,  saying :  "  It  *s  true 
we  worked  together  on  the  same  paper  for 
five  years,  but  he  was  always  a  perfect  gen 
tleman.  I  never  called  him  'Gene."  This 
was  reported  by  the  press,  and  gave  me  the 
refrain  for  a  skit  entitled  "Katharine  and 
Eugenic :" 

Five  years  she  sate  a-near  him 

Within  that  type-strewn  loft ; 
She  handed  him  the  paste-pot, 

He  passed  the  scissors  oft ; 
They  dipped  in  the  same  inkstand 

That  crowned  their  desk  between, 
Yet —  he  never  called  her  Katie, 

She  never  called  him  "  Gene." 

Though  close  —  ah!  close  —  the  droplight 

That  classic  head  revealed, 
She  was  to  him  Miss  Katharine, 

He  —  naught  but  Mister  Field ; 
Decorum  graced  his  upright  brow 

And  thinned  his  lips  serene, 
And,  though  he  wrote  a  poem  each  hour, 

Why  should  she  call  him  "  Gene?" 

xviii 


INTRODUCTION 

She  gazed  at  his  sporadic  hair  — 

She  knew  his  hymns  by  rote  ; 
They  longed  to  dine  together 

At  Casey's  table  d'hote  ; 
Alas,  that  Fortune's  "hostages  "  — 

But  let  us  draw  a  screen  ! 
He  dared  not  call  her  Katie  ; 

How  could  she  call  him  "  Gene?" 


I  signed  my  verses  "By  one  of  Gene's 
Victims "  ;  they  appeared  in  The  Tribune, 
and  soon  were  copied  by  papers  in  every 
part  of  the  country.  Other  stanzas,  with 
the  same  refrain,  were  added  by  the  funny 
men  of  the  southern  and  western  press,  and 
it  was  months  before  '  Gene '  saw  the  last  of 
them.  The  word  "Eugenio,"  which  was 
the  name  by  which  I  always  addressed  him 
in  our  correspondence,  left  him  in  no  doubt 
as  to  the  initiator  of  the  series,  and  so  our 
"Merry  War"  ended,  I  think,  with  a  fair 
quittance  to  either  side. 

Grieving,  with  so  many  others,  over 
Yorick's  premature  death,  it  is  a  solace  for 
me  to  remember  how  pleasant  was  our  last 
interchange  of  written  words.  Not  long 
ago,  he  was  laid  very  low  by  pneumonia, 


INTRODUCTION 

but  recovered,  and  before  leaving  his  sick 
room  wrote  me  a  sweetly  serious  letter  — 
with  here  and  there  a  sparkle  in  it —  but  in  a 
tone  sobered  by  illness,  and  full  of  yearning 
for  a  closer  companionship  with  his  friends. 
At  the  same  time  he  sent  me  the  first  edi 
tions,  long  ago  picked  up,  of  all  my  earlier 
books,  and  begged  me  to  write  on  their  fly 
leaves.  This  I  did;  with  pains  to  gratify 
him  as  much  as  possible,  and  in  one  of  the 
volumes  wrote  this  little  quatrain : 


TO   EUGENE   FIELD 


Death  thought  to  claim  you  in  this  year  of  years, 
But  Fancy  cried  —  and  raised  her  shield  between  — 

"  Still  let  men  weep,  and  smile  amid  their  tears; 
Take  any  two  beside,  but  spare  Eugene!  " 

In  view  of  his  near  escape,  the  hyperbole, 
if  such  there  was,  might  well  be  pardoned, 
and  it  touched  Eugene  so  manifestly  that  — 
now  that  the  eddy  indeed  has  swept  him 
away,  and  the  Sabine  Farm  mourns  for  its 
new- world  Horace  —  I  cannot  be  too  thank 
ful  that  such  was  my  last  message  to  him. 
Eugene  Field  was  so  mixed  a  compound 
that  it  will  always  be  impossible  quite  to 


INTRODUCTION 

decide  whether  he  was  wont  to  judge  criti 
cally  of  either  his  own  conduct  or  his  literary 
creations.  As  to  the  latter,  he  put  the  worst 
and  the  best  side  by  side,  and  apparently 
cared  alike  for  both.  That  he  did  much  be 
neath  his  standard,  fine  and  true  at  times, — 
is  unquestionable,  and  many  a  set  of  verses 
went  the  rounds  that  harmed  his  reputation. 
On  the  whole,  I  think  this  was  due  to  the 
fact  that  he  got  his  stated  income  as  a  news 
paper  poet  and  jester,  and  had  to  furnish  his 
score  of  "Sharps  and  Flats"  with  more  or 
less  regularity.  For  all  this,  he  certainly  has 
left  pieces,  compact  of  the  rarer  elements, 
sufficient  in  number  to  preserve  for  him  a 
unique  place  among  America's  most  original 
characters,  scholarly  wits,  and  poets  of 
brightest  fancy.  Yorick  is  no  more!  But 
his  genius  will  need  no  chance  upturning  of 
his  grave-turf  for  its  remembrance.  When 
all  is  sifted,  its  fame  is  more  likely  to 
strengthen  than  to  decline. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN. 

[Originally  contributed  to  the  "Souvenir  Book"  of 
the  N.  Y.  Hebrew  Fair,  December,  1895.] 


PAGE 

THE  HOLY  CROSS 3 

THE  ROSE  AND  THE  THRUSH 27 

THE  PAGAN  SEAL-WIFE 43 

FLAIL,  TRASK,  AND  BISLAND 77 

THE  TOUCH  IN  THE  HEART 91 

DANIEL  AND  THE  DEVIL 1 1 1 

METHUSELAH 129 

FELICE  AND  PETIT-POULAIN 147 

THE  RIVER 161 

FRANZ  ABT 167 

MISTRESS  MERCILESS 175 

THE  PLATONIC  BASSOON 195 

HAWAIAN  FOLK  TALES 217 

LUTE  BAKER  AND  His  WIFE  '£M 235 

JOEL'S  TALK  WITH  SANTA  GLAUS 249 

THE  LONESOME  LITTLE  SHOE 267 


€fje 


Crops' 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 


llHILST  the  noble  Don  Esclevador 
and  his  little  band  of  venturesome 
followers  explored  the  neighboring 
fastnesses  in  quest  for  gold,  the  Father  Miguel 
tarried  at  the  shrine  which  in  sweet  piety 
they  had  hewn  out  of  the  stubborn  rock  in 
that  strangely  desolate  spot  Here,  upon 
that  serene  August  morning,  the  holy  Father 
held  communion  with  the  saints,  beseeching 
them,  in  all  humility,  to  intercede  with  our 
beloved  Mother  for  the  safe  guidance  of  the 
fugitive  Cortes  to  his  native  shores,  and  for 
the  divine  protection  of  the  little  host,  which, 
separated  from  the  Spanish  army,  had  wan 
dered  leagues  to  the  northward,  and  had 
sought  refuge  in  the  noble  mountains  of  an 
unknown  land.  The  Father's  devotions 
were,  upon  a  sudden,  interrupted  by  the  ap- 
3 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

proach  of  an  aged  man  who  toiled  along  the 
mountain-side  path, —  a  man  so  aged  and  so 
bowed  and  so  feeble  that  he  seemed  to  have 
been  brought  down  into  that  place,  by  means 
of  some  necromantic  art,  out  of  distant  cen 
turies.  His  face  was  yellow  and  wrinkled 
like  ancient  parchment,  and  a  beard  whiter 
than  Samite  streamed  upon  his  breast,  whilst 
about  his  withered  body  and  shrunken  legs 
hung  faded  raiment  which  the  elements  had 
corroded  and  the  thorns  had  grievously  rent. 
And  as  he  toiled  along,  the  aged  man  con 
tinually  groaned,  and  continually  wrung  his 
palsied  hands,  as  if  a  sorrow,  no  lighter  than 
his  years,  afflicted  him. 

"In  whose  name  comest  thou?"  de 
manded  the  Father  Miguel,  advancing  a  space 
toward  the  stranger,  but  not  in  threatening 
wise;  whereat  the  aged  man  stopped  in  his 
course  and  lifted  his  eyebrows,  and  regarded 
the  Father  a  goodly  time,  but  he  spake  no 
word. 

"  In  whose  name  comest  thou  ?  "  repeated 
the  priestly  man.  "  Upon  these  mountains 
have  we  lifted  up  the  cross  of  our  blessed 
Lord  in  the  name  of  our  sovereign  liege,  and 

4 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

here  have  we  set  down  a  tabernacle  to  the 
glory  of  the  Virgin  and  of  her  ever-blessed 
son,  our  Redeemer  and  thine, —  whoso  thou 
mayest  be!" 

"  Who  is  thy  king  I  know  not,"  quoth  the 
aged  man,  feebly ;  "  but  the  shrine  in  yonder 
wall  of  rock  I  know;  and  by  that  symbol 
which  I  see  therein,  and  by  thy  faith  for 
which  it  stands,  I  conjure  thee,  as  thou  lov- 
est  both,  give  me  somewhat  to  eat  and  to 
drink,  that  betimes  I  may  go  upon  my  way 
again,  for  the  journey  before  me  is  a  long 
one." 

These  words  spake  the  old  man  in  tones 
of  such  exceeding  sadness  that  the  Father 
Miguel,  touched  by  compassion,  hastened 
to  meet  the  wayfarer,  and,  with  his  arms 
about  him,  and  with  whisperings  of  sweet 
comfort,  to  conduct  him  to  a  resting-place. 
Coarse  food  in  goodly  plenty  was  at  hand; 
and  it  happily  fortuned,  too,  that  there  was 
a  homely  wine,  made  by  Pietro  del  y  Sagu- 
ache  himself,  of  the  wild  grapes  in  which 
a  neighboring  valley  abounded.  Of  these 
things  anon  the  old  man  partook,  greedily 
but  silently,  and  all  that  while  he  rolled  his 

5 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

eyes  upon  the  shrine ;  and  then  at  last,  strug 
gling  to  his  feet,  he  made  as  if  to  go  upon 
his  way. 

"Nay,"  interposed  the  Father  Miguel, 
kindly;  "abide  with  us  a  season.  Thou  art 
an  old  man  and  sorely  spent.  Such  as  we 
have  thou  shalt  have,  and  if  thy  soul  be  dis 
tressed,  we  shall  pour  upon  it  the  healing 
balm  of  our  blessed  faith." 

"  Little  knowest  thou  whereof  thou  speak- 
est,"  quoth  the  old  man,  sadly.  "There  is 
no  balm  can  avail  me.  I  prithee  let  me  go 
hence,  ere,  knowing  what  manner  of  man  I 
am,  thou  hatest  me  and  doest  evil  unto  me." 
But  as  he  said  these  words  he  fell  back  again 
even  then  into  the  seat  where  he  had  sat, 
and,  as  through  fatigue,  his  hoary  head 
dropped  upon  his  bosom. 

"Thou  art  ill!"  cried  the  Father  Miguel, 
hastening  to  his  side.  "Thou  shalt  go  no 
farther  this  day!  Give  me  thy  staff,"  —  and 
he  plucked  it  from  him. 

Then  said  the  old  man:  "As  I  am  now, 

so  have  I  been  these  many  hundred  years. 

Thou  hast  heard  tell  of  me, — canst  thou  not 

guess  my  name;   canst  thou  not  read  my 

6 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

sorrow  in  my  face  and  in  my  bosom  ?  As 
thou  art  good  and  holy  through  thy  faith  in 
that  symbol  in  yonder  shrine,  hearken  to 
me,  for  I  will  tell  thee  of  the  wretch  whom 
thou  hast  succored.  Then,  if  it  be  thy  will, 
give  me  thy  curse  and  send  me  on  my  way." 

Much  marvelled  the  Father  Miguel  at  these 
words,  and  he  deemed  the  old  man  to  be 
mad;  but  he  made  no  answer.  And  pre 
sently  the  old  man,  bowing  his  head  upon 
his  hands,  had  to  say  in  this  wise : — 

"Upon  a  time,"  he  quoth,  "I  abided  in 
the  city  of  the  Great  King, — there  was  I 
born  and  there  I  abided.  I  was  of  good 
stature,  and  I  asked  favor  of  none.  I  was 
an  artisan,  and  many  came  to  my  shop,  and 
my  cunning  was  sought  of  many, — for  I  was 
exceeding  crafty  in  my  trade;  and  so,  there 
fore,  speedily  my  pride  begot  an  insolence 
that  had  respect  to  none  at  all.  And  once  I 
heard  a  tumult  in  the  street,  as  of  the  cries 
of  men  and  boys  commingled,  and  the  clash 
ing  of  arms  and  staves.  Seeking  to  know 
the  cause  thereof,  I  saw  that  one  was  being 
driven  to  execution, —  one  that  had  said  he 
was  the  Son  of  God  and  the  King  of  the  Jews, 
7 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

for  which  blasphemy  and  crime  against  our 
people  he  was  to  die  upon  the  cross.  Over 
come  by  the  weight  of  this  cross,  which  he 
bore  upon  his  shoulders,  the  victim  tottered 
in  the  street  and  swayed  this  way  and  that,  as 
though  each  moment  he  were  like  to  fall,  and 
he  groaned  in  sore  agony.  Meanwhile  about 
him  pressed  a  multitude  that  with  vast  clamor 
railed  at  him  and  scoffed  him  and  smote  him, 
to  whom  he  paid  no  heed ;  but  in  his  agony  his 
eyes  were  alway  uplifted  to  heaven,  and  his 
lips  moved  in  prayer  for  them  that  so  shame 
fully  entreated  him.  And  as  he  went  his  way 
to  Calvary,  it  fortuned  that  he  fell  and  lay  be 
neath  the  cross  right  at  my  very  door,  where 
upon,  turning  his  eyes  upon  me  as  I  stood 
over  against  him,  he  begged  me  that  for  a 
little  moment  I  should  bear  up  the  weight 
of  the  cross  whilst  that  he  wiped  the  sweat 
from  off  his  brow.  But  I  was  filled  with 
hatred,  and  I  spurned  him  with  my  foot,  and 
I  said  to  him:  'Move  on,  thou  wretched 
criminal,  move  on.  Pollute  not  my  door 
way  with  thy  touch, —  move  on  to  death,  I 
command  thee!'  This  was  the  answer  I 
gave  to  him,  but  no  succor  at  all.  Then  he 
8 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

spake  to  me  once  again,  and  he  said :  '  Thou, 
too,  shalt  move  on,  O  Jew!  Thou  shalt 
move  on  forever,  but  not  to  death ! '  And 
with  these  words  he  bore  up  the  cross  again 
and  went  upon  his  way  to  Calvary. 

"Then  of  a  sudden,"  quoth  the  old  man, 
"a  horror  filled  my  breast,  and  a  resistless 
terror  possessed  me.  So  was  I  accursed  for- 
evermore.  A  voice  kept  saying  always  to 
me:  'Move  on,  O  Jew!  move  on  forever!' 
From  home,  from  kin,  from  country,  from  all 
I  knew  and  loved  I  fled;  nowhere  could  I 
tarry, —  the  nameless  horror  burned  in  my 
bosom,  and  I  heard  continually  a  voice  cry 
ing  unto  me:  'Move  on,  O  Jew!  move  on 
forever! '  So,  with  the  years,  the  centuries, 
the  ages,  I  have  fled  before  that  cry  and  in 
that  nameless  horror;  empires  have  risen 
and  crumbled,  races  have  been  born  and  are 
extinct,  mountains  have  been  cast  up  and 
time  hath  levelled  them, —  still  I  do  live  and 
still  I  wander  hither  and  thither  upon  the 
face  of  the  earth,  and  am  an  accursed  thing. 
The  gift  of  tongues  is  mine, — all  men  I 
know,  yet  mankind  knows  me  not.  Death 
meets  me  face  to  face,  and  passes  me  by; 

9 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

the  sea  devours  all  other  prey,  but  will  not 
hide  me  in  its  depths;  wild  beasts  flee  from 
me,  and  pestilences  turn  their  consuming 
breaths  elsewhere.  On  and  on  and  on  I  go, 
—  not  to  a  home,  nor  to  my  people,  nor  to 
my  grave,  but  evermore  into  the  tortures  of 
an  eternity  of  sorrow.  And  evermore  I  feel 
the  nameless  horror  burn  within,  whilst 
evermore  I  see  the  pleading  eyes  of  him 
that  bore  the  cross,  and  evermore  I  hear  his 
voice  crying:  'Move  on,  O  Jew!  move  on 
forevermore ! ' ' 

"Thou  art  the  Wandering  Jew!"  cried  the 
Father  Miguel. 

"  I  am  he,"  saith  the  aged  man.  "  I  mar 
vel  not  that  thou  dost  revolt  against  me,  for 
thou  standest  in  the  shadow  of  that  same 
cross  which  I  have  spurned,  and  thou  art 
illumined  with  the  love  of  him  that  went  his 
way  to  Calvary.  But  I  beseech  thee  bear 
with  me  until  I  have  told  thee  all, — then 
drive  me  hence  if  thou  art  so  minded." 

"  Speak  on,"  quoth  the  Father  Miguel. 

Then  said  the  Jew:  "  How  came  I  here  I 
scarcely  know;  the  seasons  are  one  to  me, 
and  one  day  but  as  another;  for  the  span  of 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

my  life,  O  priestly  man !  is  eternity.  This 
much  know  you:  from  a  far  country  I  em 
barked  upon  a  ship, — I  knew  not  whence 
't  was  bound,  nor  cared  I.  I  obeyed  the  voice 
that  bade  me  go.  Anon  a  mighty  tempest 
fell  upon  the  ship  and  overwhelmed  it.  The 
cruel  sea  brought  peace  to  all  but  me ;  a 
many  days  it  tossed  and  buffeted  me,  then 
with  a  cry  of  exultation  cast  me  at  last  upon 
a  shore  I  had  not  seen  before,  a  coast  far,  far 
westward  whereon  abides  no  human  thing. 
But  in  that  solitude  still  heard  I  from  within 
the  awful  mandate  that  sent  me  journeying 
onward,  '  Move  on,  O  Jew!  move  on;'  and 
into  vast  forests  I  plunged,  and  mighty  plains 
I  traversed;  onward,  onward,  onward  I 
went,  with  the  nameless  horror  in  my  bosom, 
and  —  that  cry,  that  awful  cry!  The  rains 
beat  upon  me;  the  sun  wrought  pitilessly 
with  me;  the  thickets  tore  my  flesh;  and 
the  inhospitable  shores  bruised  my  weary 
feet, — yet  onward  I  went,  plucking  what 
food  I  might  from  thorny  bushes  to  stay  my 
hunger,  and  allaying  my  feverish  thirst  at 
pools  where  reptiles  crawled.  Sometimes  a 
monster  beast  stood  in  my  pathway  and 
ti 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

threatened  to  devour  me;  then  would  I 
spread  my  two  arms  thus,  and  welcome 
death,  crying:  '  Rend  thou  this  Jew  in  twain, 
O  beast!  strike  thy  kindly  fangs  deep  into 
this  heart, — be  not  afeard,  for  I  shall  make  no 
battle  with  thee,  nor  any  outcry  whatsoever! ' 
But,  lo,  the  beast  would  cower  before  me  and 
skulk  away.  So  there  is  no  death  for  me; 
the  judgment  spoken  is  irrevocable;  my  sin 
is  unpardonable,  and  the  voice  will  not  be 
hushed!" 

Thus  and  so  much  spake  the  Jew,  bowing 
his  hoary  head  upon  his  hands.  Then  was 
the  Father  Miguel  vastly  troubled ;  yet  he  re 
coiled  not  from  the  Jew, — nay,  he  took  the 
old  man  by  the  hand  and  sought  to  soothe 
him. 

"Thy  sin  was  most  heinous,  O  Jew!" 
quoth  the  Father;  "but  it  falleth  in  our 
blessed  faith  to  know  that  whoso  repenteth 
of  his  sin,  what  it  soever  may  be,  the  same 
shall  surely  be  forgiven.  Thy  punishment 
hath  already  been  severe,  and  God  is  merci 
ful,  for  even  as  we  are  all  his  children,  even  so 
his  tenderness  to  us  is  like  unto  the  tender 
ness  of  a  father  unto  his  child  —  yea,  and  infi- 

12 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

nitely  tenderer  and  sweeter,  for  who  can 
estimate  the  love  of  our  heavenly  Father  ? 
Thou  didst  deny  thy  succor  to  the  Nazarene 
when  he  besought  it,  yet  so  great  compas 
sion  hath  he  that  if  thou  but  callest  upon  him 
he  will  forget  thy  wrong, —  leastwise  will 
pardon  it.  Therefore  be  thou  persuaded  by 
me,  and  tarry  here  this  night,  that  in  the 
presence  of  yonder  symbol  and  the  holy 
relics  our  prayers  may  go  up  with  thine  unto 
our  blessed  Mother  and  to  the  saints  who 
haply  shall  intercede  for  thee  in  Paradise. 
Rest  here,  O  sufferer, —  rest  thou  here,  and 
we  shall  presently  give  thee  great  comfort" 
The  Jew,  well-nigh  fainting  with  fatigue, 
being  persuaded  by  the  holy  Father's  gentle 
words,  gave  finally  his  consent  unto  this 
thing,  and  went  anon  unto  the  cave  beyond 
the  shrine,  and  entered  thereinto,  and  lay 
upon  a  bed  of  skins  and  furs,  and  made  as  if 
to  sleep.  And  when  he  slept  his  sleep  was 
seemingly  disturbed  by  visions,  and  he  tossed 
as  doth  an  one  that  sees  full  evil  things,  and 
in  that  sleep  he  muttered  somewhat  of  a 
voice  he  seemed  to  hear,  though  round  about 
there  was  no  sound  whatsoever,  save  only 
>3 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

the  soft  music  of  the  pine-trees  on  the  moun 
tain-side.  Meanwhile  in  the  shrine,  hewn 
out  of  those  rocks,  did  the  Father  Miguel 
bow  before  the  sacred  symbol  of  his  faith 
and  plead  for  mercy  for  that  same  Jew  that 
slumbered  anear.  And  when,  as  the  deepen 
ing  blue  mantle  of  night  fell  upon  the  hill 
tops  and  obscured  the  valleys  round  about, 
Don  Esclevador  and  his  sturdy  men  came 
clamoring  along  the  mountain-side,  the  holy 
Father  met  them  a  way  off  and  bade  them 
have  regard  to  the  aged  man  that  slept  in 
yonder  cave.  But  when  he  told  them  of  that 
Jew  and  of  his  misery  and  of  the  secret 
causes  thereof,  out  spake  the  noble  Don 
Esclevador,  full  hotly,  — 

"By  our  sweet  Christ,  "he  cried,  "shall 
we  not  offend  our  blessed  faith  and  do  most 
impiously  in  the  Virgin's  sight  if  we  give 
this  harbor  and  this  succor  unto  so  vile  a 
sinner  as  this  Jew  that  hath  denied  our  dear 
Lord!" 

Which  words  had  like  to  wrought  great 

evil  with  the  Jew,  for  instantly  the  other  men 

sprang  forward  as  if  to  awaken  the  Jew  and 

drive  him  forth  into  the  night.     But  the 

14 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

Father  Miguel  stretched  forth  his  hands  and 
commanded  them  to  do  no  evil  unto  the 
Jew,  and  so  persuasively  did  he  set  forth 
the  godliness  and  the  sweetness  of  compas 
sion  that  presently  the  whole  company  was 
moved  with  a  gentle  pity  toward  that  Jew. 
Therefore  it  befell  anon,  when  night  came 
down  from  the  skies  and  after  they  had 
feasted  upon  their  homely  food  as  was  their 
wont,  that  they  talked  of  the  Jew,  and 
thinking  of  their  own  hardships  and  mis 
fortunes  (whereof  it  is  not  now  to  speak), 
they  had  all  the  more  compassion  to  that 
Jew,  which  spake  them  passing  fair,  I 
ween. 

Now  all  this  while  lay  the  Jew  upon  the 
bed  of  skins  and  furs  within  the  cave,  and 
though  he  slept  (for  he  was  exceeding  weary), 
he  tossed  continually  from  side  to  side,  and 
spoke  things  in  his  sleep,  as  if  his  heart  were 
sorely  troubled,  and  as  if  in  his  dreams  he 
beheld  grievous  things.  And  seeing  the  old 
man,  and  hearing  his  broken  speech,  the 
others  moved  softly  hither  and  thither  and 
made  no  noise  soever  lest  they  should 
awaken  him.  And  many  an  one  —  yes,  all 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

that  valiant  company  bowed  down  that 
night  before  the  symbol  in  the  shrine,  and 
with  sweet  reverence  called  upon  our  blessed 
Virgin  to  plead  in  the  cause  of  that  wretched 
Jew.  Then  sleep  came  to  all,  and  in  dreams 
the  noble  Don  Esclevador  saw  his  sovereign 
liege,  and  kneeled  before  his  throne,  and 
heard  his  sovereign  liege's  gracious  voice; 
in  dreams  the  heartweary  soldier  sailed  the 
blue  waters  of  the  Spanish  main,  and  pressed 
his  native  shore,  and  beheld  once  again  the 
lovelight  in  the  dark  eyes  of  her  that  awaited 
him ;  in  dreams  the  mountain-pines  were 
kissed  of  the  singing  winds,  and  murmured 
drowsily  and  tossed  their  arms  as  do  little 
children  that  dream  of  their  play;  in  dreams 
the  Jew  swayed  hither  and  thither,  scourged 
by  that  nameless  horror  in  his  bosom,  and 
seeing  the  pleading  eyes  of  our  dying  Master, 
and  hearing  that  awful  mandate:  "  Move  on, 
O  Jew!  move  on  forever!"  So  each  slept 
and  dreamed  his  dreams, —  all  slept  but  the 
Father  Miguel,  who  alone  throughout  the 
night  kneeled  in  the  shrine  and  called  unto 
the  saints  and  unto  our  Mother  Mary  in 
prayer.  And  his  supplication  was  for  that 
16 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Jew;  and  the  mists  fell  upon  that  place  and 
compassed  it  about,  and  it  was  as  if  the 
heavens  had  reached  down  their  lips  to  kiss 
the  holy  shrine.  And  suddenly  there  came 
unto  the  Jew  a  quiet  as  of  death,  so  that  he 
tossed  no  more  in  his  sleep  and  spake  no 
word,  but  lay  exceeding  still,  smiling  in  his 
sleep  as  one  who  sees  his  home  in  dreams, 
or  his  mother,  or  some  other  such  beloved 
thing. 

It  came  to  pass  that  early  in  the  morning 
the  Jew  came  from  the  cavern  to  go  upon 
his  way,  and  the  Father  Miguel  besought 
him  to  take  with  him  a  goodly  loaf  in  his 
wallet  as  wise  provision  against  hunger. 
But  the  Jew  denied  this,  and  then  he  said: 
"  Last  night  while  I  slept  methought  I  stood 
once  more  in  the  city  of  the  Great  King, — 
ay,  in  that  very  doorway  where  I  stood, 
swart  and  lusty,  when  I  spurned  him  that 
went  his  way  to  Calvary.  In  my  bosom 
burned  the  terror  as  of  old,  and  my  soul 
was  consumed  of  a  mighty  anguish.  None 
of  those  that  passed  in  that  street  knew  me; 
centuries  had  ground  to  dust  all  my  kin. 
'O  God!'  I  cried  in  agony,  'suffer  my  sin 

•7 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

to  be  forgotten, — suffer  me  to  sleep,  to 
sleep  forever  beneath  the  burden  of  the  cross 
I  sometime  spurned!'  As  I  spake  these 
words  there  stood  before  me  one  in  shining 
raiment,  and  lo!  't  was  he  who  bore  the 
cross  to  Calvary !  His  eyes  that  had  pleaded 
to  me  on  a  time  now  fell  compassionately 
upon  me,  and  the  voice  that  had  com 
manded  me  move  on  forever,  now  broke 
full  sweetly  on  my  ears :  '  Thou  shalt  go  on 
no  more,  O  Jew,  but  as  thou  hast  asked,  so 
shall  it  be,  and  thou  shalt  sleep  forever  be 
neath  the  cross.'  Then  fell  I  into  a  deep 
slumber,  and,  therefrom  but  just  now  awak 
ing,  I  feel  within  me  what  peace  bespeaketh 
pardon  for  my  sin.  This  day  am  I  ransomed ; 
so  suffer  me  to  go  my  way,  O  holy  man." 

So  went  the  Jew  upon  his  way,  not  groan- 
ingly  and  in  toilsome  wise,  as  was  his  wont, 
but  eagerly,  as  goeth  one  to  meet  his  bride, 
or  unto  some  sweet  reward.  And  the  Father 
Miguel  stood  long,  looking  after  him  and 
being  sorely  troubled  in  mind ;  for  he  knew 
not  what  interpretation  he  should  make  of 
all  these  things.  And  anon  the  Jew  was 
lost  to  sight  in  the  forest. 

18 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

But  once,  a  little  space  thereafter,  while 
that  Jose  Conejos,  the  Castilian,  clambered 
up  the  yonder  mountain-side,  he  saw  amid 
the  grasses  there  the  dead  and  withered 
body  of  an  aged  man,  and  thereupon  forth 
with  made  he  such  clamor  that  Don  Escleva- 
dor  hastened  thither  and  saw  it  was  the  Jew ; 
and  since  there  was  no  sign  that  wild  beasts 
had  wrought  evil  with  him,  it  was  declared 
that  the  Jew  had  died  of  age  and  fatigue 
and  sorrow,  albeit  on  the  wrinkled  face 
there  was  a  smile  of  peace  that  none  had  seen 
thereon  while  yet  the  Jew  lived.  And  it 
was  accounted  to  be  a  most  wondrous  thing 
that,  whereas  never  before  had  flowers  of 
that  kind  been  seen  in  those  mountains, 
there  now  bloomed  all  round  about  flowers 
of  the  dye  of  blood,  which  thing  the  noble 
Don  Esclevador  took  full  wisely  to  be  a 
symbol  of  our  dear  Lord's  most  precious 
blood,  whereby  not  only  you  and  I  but 
even  the  Jew  shall  be  redeemed  to  Paradise. 

Within  the  spot  where  they  had  found  the 
Jew  they  buried  him,  and  there  he  sleeps 
unto  this  very  day.  Above  the  grave  the 
Father  Miguel  said  a  prayer;  and  the  ground 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

of  that  mountain  they  adjudged  to  be  holy 
ground;  but  over  the  grave  wherein  lay 
the  Jew  they  set  up  neither  cross  nor  sym 
bol  of  any  kind,  fearing  to  offend  their  holy 
faith. 

But  that  very  night,  when  that  they  were 
returned  unto  their  camp  half  a  league  dis 
tant,  there  arose  a  mighty  tempest,  and  there 
was  such  an  upheaval  and  rending  of  the 
earth  as  only  God's  hand  could  make;  and 
there  was  a  crashing  and  a  groaning  as  if 
the  world  were  smitten  in  twain,  and  the 
winds  fled  through  the  valleys  in  dismay, 
and  the  trees  of  the  forest  shrieked  in  terror 
and  fell  upon  their  faces.  Then  in  the  morn 
ing  when  the  tempest  ceased  and  all  the  sky 
was  calm  and  radiant  they  saw  that  an  im 
passable  chasm  lay  between  them  and  that 
mountain-side  wherein  thejewslept  the  sleep 
of  death ;  that  God  had  traced  with  his  finger 
a  mighty  gulf  about  that  holy  ground  which 
held  the  bones  of  the  transgressor.  Between 
heaven  and  earth  hung  that  lonely  grave,  nor 
could  any  foot  scale  the  precipice  that  guarded 
it ;  but  one  might  see  that  the  spot  was  beau 
tiful  with  kindly  mountain  verdure  and  that 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

flowers  of  blood-red  dye  bloomed  in  that 
lonely  place. 

This  was  the  happening  in  a  summer-time 
a  many  years  ago ;  to  the  mellow  grace  of 
that  summer  succeeded  the  purple  glory  of 
the  autumn,  and  then  came  on  apace  the 
hoary  dignity  of  winter.  But  the  earth  hath 
its  resurrection  too,  and  anon  came  the  beau 
teous  spring-time  with  warmth  and  scents 
and  new  life.  The  brooks  leapt  forth  once 
more  from  their  hiding-places,  the  verdure 
awaked,  and  the  trees  put  forth  their  foliage. 
Then  from  the  awful  mountain  peaks  the 
snow  silently  and  slowly  slipped  to  the  val 
leys,  and  in  divers  natural  channels  went 
onward  and  ever  downward  to  the  southern 
sea,  and  now  at  last  't  was  summer-time 
again  and  the  mellow  grace  of  August 
brooded  over  the  earth.  But  in  that  yonder 
mountain-side  had  fallen  a  symbol  never  to 
be  removed, —  ay,  upon  that  holy  ground 
where  slept  the  Jew  was  stretched  a  cross,  a 
mighty  cross  of  snow  on  which  the  sun  never 
fell  and  which  no  breath  of  wind  ever  dis 
turbed.  Elsewhere  was  the  tender  warmth 
of  verdure  and  the  sacred  passion  of  the 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

blood-red  flowers,  but  over  that  lonely  grave 
was  stretched  the  symbol  of  him  that  went 
his  way  to  Calvary,  and  in  that  grave  slept 
the  Jew. 

Mightily  marvelled  Don  Esclevador  and 
his  warrior  host  at  this  thing;  but  the 
Father  Miguel  knew  its  meaning;  for  he 
was  minded  of  that  vision  wherein  it  was 
foretold  unto  the  Jew  that,  pardoned  for  his 
sin,  he  should  sleep  forever  under  the  burden 
of  the  cross  he  spurned.  All  this  the  Father 
Miguel  showed  unto  Don  Esclevador  and 
the  others,  and  he  said:  "I  deem  that  unto 
all  ages  this  holy  symbol  shall  bear  witness 
of  our  dear  Christ's  mercy  and  compassion. 
Though  we,  O  exiled  brothers,  sleep  in  this 
foreign  land  in  graves  which  none  shall 
know,  upon  that  mountain  height  beyond 
shall  stretch  the  eternal  witness  to  our  faith 
and  to  our  Redeemer's  love,  minding  all  that 
look  thereon,  not  of  the  pains  and  the  punish 
ments  of  the  Jew,  but  of  the  exceeding  mercy 
of  our  blessed  Lord,  and  of  the  certain  eter 
nal  peace  that  cometh  through  his  love!  " 

How  long  ago  these  things  whereof  I 
speak  befell,  I  shall  not  say.     They  never 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

saw  —  that  Spanish  host  —  they  never  saw 
their  native  land,  their  sovereign  liege,  their 
loved  ones'  faces  again ;  they  sleep,  and  they 
are  dust  among  those  mighty  mountains  in 
the  West.  Where  is  the  grave  of  the  Father 
Miguel,  or  of  Don  Esclevador,  or  of  any  of 
the  valiant  Spanish  exiles,  it  is  not  to  tell; 
God  only  knoweth,  and  the  saints:  all  sleep 
in  the  faith,  and  their  reward  is  certain.  But 
where  sleepeth  the  Jew  all  may  see  and 
know ;  for  on  that  awful  mountain-side,  in 
a  spot  inaccessible  to  man,  lieth  the  holy 
cross  of  snow.  The  winds  pass  lightly  over 
that  solemn  tomb,  and  never  a  sunbeam 
lingereth  there.  White  and  majestic  it  lies 
where  God's  hands  have  placed  it,  and  its 
mighty  arms  stretch  forth  as  in  a  benediction 
upon  the  fleeting  dust  beneath. 

So  shall  it  bide  forever  upon  that  moun 
tain-side,  and  the  memory  of  the  Jew  and 
of  all  else  human  shall  fade  away  and  be  for 
gotten  in  the  surpassing  glory  of  the  love  and 
the  compassion  of  him  that  bore  the  redeem 
ing  burden  to  Calvary. 


anb 


THE   ROSE  AND  THE  THRUSH 


'HpHERE  was  none  other  in  the  quiet  valley 
1  so  happy  as  the  rose-tree, —  none  other 
so  happy  unless  perchance  it  was  the  thrush 
who  made  his  home  in  the  linden  yonder. 
The  thrush  loved  the  rose-tree's  daughter, 
and  he  was  happy  in  thinking  that  some  day 
she  would  be  his  bride.  Now  the  rose-tree 
had  many  daughters,  and  each  was  beauti 
ful  ;  but  the  rose  whom  the  thrush  loved  was 
more  beautiful  than  her  sisters,  and  all  the 
wooers  came  wooing  her  until  at  last  the 
fair  creature's  head  was  turned,  and  the  rose 
grew  capricious  and  disdainful.  Among  her 
many  lovers  were  the  south  wind  and  the 
fairy  Dewlove  and  the  little  elf-prince  Beam- 
bright  and  the  hoptoad,  whom  all  the  rest 
called  Mr.  Roughbrown.  The  hoptoad  lived 
in  the  stone-wall  several  yards  away;  but 
27 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

every  morning  and  evening  he  made  a  jour 
ney  to  the  rose-tree,  and  there  he  would  sit 
for  hours  gazing  with  tender  longings  at  the 
beautiful  rose,  and  murmuring  impassioned 
avowals.  The  rose's  disdain  did  not  chill 
the  hoptoad's  ardor.  "See  what  I  have 
brought  you,  fair  rose,"  he  would  say.  "A 
beautiful  brown  beetle  with  golden  wings 
and  green  eyes !  Surely  there  is  not  in  all  the 
world  a  more  delicious  morsel  than  a  brown 
beetle !  Or,  if  you  but  say  the  word,  I  will 
fetch  you  a  tender  little  fly,  or  a  young  gnat, 
—  see,  I  am  willing  to  undergo  all  toils  and 
dangers  for  your  own  sweet  sake." 

Poor  Mr.  Roughbrown !  His  wooing  was 
very  hopeless.  And  all  the  time  he  courted 
the  imperious  rose,  who  should  be  peeping 
at  him  from  her  home  in  the  hedge  but  as 
plump  and  as  sleek  a  little  Miss  Dormouse 
as  ever  you  saw,  and  her  eyes  were  full  of 
envy. 

"  If  Mr.  Roughbrown  had  any  sense,"  she 
said  to  herself,  "he  would  waste  no  time  on 
that  vain  and  frivolous  rose.  He  is  far  too 
good  a  catch  for  ber. " 

The  south  wind  was  forever  sighing  and 
28 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

sobbing  about.  He  lives,  you  know,  very 
many  miles  from  here.  His  home  is  beyond 
a  great  sea ;  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  desert  there 
is  an  oasis,  and  it  is  among  the  palm-trees 
and  the  flowers  of  this  oasis  that  the  south 
wind  abides.  When  spring  calls  from  the 
North,  "O  south  wind,  where  are  you? 
Come  hither,  my  sunny  friend!  "  the  south 
wind  leaps  from  his  couch  in  the  far-off  oasis, 
and  hastens  whither  the  spring-time  calls.  As 
he  speeds  across  the  sea  the  mermaids  seek 
to  tangle  him  in  their  tresses,  and  the  waves 
try  to  twine  their  white  arms  about  him ;  but 
he  shakes  them  off  and  laughingly  flies  upon 
his  way.  Wheresoever  he  goes  he  is  be 
loved.  With  their  soft,  solemn  music  the 
pine-trees  seek  to  detain  him ;  the  flowers 
of  earth  lift  up  their  voices  and  cry,  "Abide 
with  us,  dear  spirit, " —  but  to  all  he  answers : 
"  The  spring-time  calls  me  in  the  North,  and 
I  must  hasten  whither  she  calls. "  But  when 
the  south  wind  came  to  the  rose-tree  he 
would  go  no  farther;  he  loved  the  rose,  and 
he  lingered  about  her  with  singing  and  sigh 
ing  and  protestations. 
It  was  not  until  late  in  the  evening  that 
29 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

Dewlove  and  the  elf-prince  appeared.  Just 
as  the  moon  rolled  up  in  the  horizon  and 
poured  a  broad  streak  of  silver  through  the 
lake  the  three  crickets  went  "Chirp-chirp, 
chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp,  "and  then  out  danced 
Dewlove  and  Beambright  from  their  hiding- 
places.  The  cunning  little  fairy  lived  under 
the  moss  at  the  foot  of  the  oak-tree'  he  was 
no  bigger  than  a  cambric  needle, — but  he 
had  two  eyes,  and  in  this  respect  he  had 
quite  the  advantage  of  the  needle.  As  for 
the  elf-prince,  his  home  was  in  the  tiny,  dark 
subterranean  passage  which  the  mole  used 
to  live  in ;  he  was  plump  as  a  cupid,  and  his 
hair  was  long  and  curly,  although  if  you 
force  me  to  it  I  must  tell  you  that  the  elf- 
prince  was  really  no  larger  than  your  little 
finger, —  so  you  will  see  that  so  far  as  physi 
cal  proportions  were  concerned  Dewlove 
and  Beambright  were  pretty  well  matched. 
Merry,  merry  fellows  they  were,  and  I  should 
certainly  fail  most  lamentably  did  I  attempt 
to  tell  you  how  prettily  they  danced  upon  the 
greensward  of  the  meadowlands  throughout 
the  summer  nights.  Sometimes  the  other 
fairies  and  elves  joined  them, —  delicate  little 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

lady  fairies  with  gossamer  wings,  and  chubby 
little  lady  elves  clad  in  filmy  spider  webs, 
—  and  they  danced  and  danced  and  danced, 
while  the  three  crickets  went  "Chirp-chirp, 
chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp,"  all  night  long. 
Now  it  was  very  strange — was  it  not  ? — that 
instead  of  loving  one  of  these  delicate  little 
lady  fairies,  or  one  of  these  chubby  little  lady 
elves,  both  Dewlove  and  Beambright  loved 
the  rose.  Yet,  she  was  indeed  very  beau 
tiful. 

The  thrush  did  not  pester  the  rose  with  his 
protestations  of  love.  He  was  not  a  partic 
ularly  proud  fellow,  but  he  thought  too  much 
of  the  rose  to  vex  her  with  his  pleadings. 
But  all  day  long  he  would  perch  in  the 
thicket  and  sing  his  songs  as  only  a  thrush 
can  sing  to  the  beautiful  rose  he  loves.  He 
sung,  we  will  say,  of  the  forests  he  had 
explored,  of  the  famous  river  he  had  once 
seen,  of  the  dew  which  the  rose  loved,  of 
the  storm-king  that  slew  the  old  pine  and 
made  his  cones  into  a  crown, —  he  sung  of  a 
thousand  things  which  we  might  not  under 
stand,  but  which  pleased  the  rose  because 
sbf  understood  them.  And  one  day  the 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

thrush  swoopecf'down  from  the  linden  upon 
a  monstrous  devil's  darning-needle  that  came 
spinning  along  and  poised  himself  to  stab 
the  beautiful  rose.  Yes,  like  lightning  the 
thrush  swooped  down  on  this  murderous 
monster,  and  he  bit  him  in  two,  and  I  am 
glad  of  it,  and  so  are  you  if  your  heart  be 
not  wholly  callous. 

"How  comes  it,  "said  the  rose-tree  to  the 
thrush  that  day, —  "  how  comes  it  that  you 
do  not  woo  my  daughter?  You  have 
shown  that  you  love  her;  why  not  speak  to 
her?" 

"No,  I  will  wait,"  answered  the  thrush. 
"  She  has  many  wooers,  and  each  wooes  her 
in  his  own  way.  Let  me  show  her  by  my 
devotion  that  I  am  worthy  of  her,  and  then 
perchance  she  will  listen  kindly  to  me  when 
I  speak  to  her." 

The  rose-tree  thought  very  strange  of  this ; 
in  all  her  experience  of  bringing  out  her  fair 
daughters  into  society  she  had  never  before 
had  to  deal  with  so  curious  a  lover  as  the 
thrush.  She  made  up  her  mind  to  speak 
for  him. 

"  My  daughter,"  said  she  to  the  rose,  "the 
32 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

thrush  loves  you;  of  all  your  wooers  he  is 
the  most  constant  and  the  most  amiable.  I 
pray  that  you  will  hear  kindly  to  his  suit." 

The  rose  laughed  carelessly, —  yes,  mer 
rily,— as  if  she  heeded  not  the  heartache 
which  her  indifference  might  cause  the  hon 
est  thrush. 

"Mother,"  said  the  rose,  "these  suitors 
are  pestering  me  beyond  all  endurance.  How 
can  I  have  any  patience  with  the  south  wind, 
who  is  forever  importuning  me  with  his  sen 
timental  sighs  and  melancholy  wheezing? 
And  as  for  that  old  hoptoad,  Mr.  Rough- 
brown, —  why,  it  is  a  husband  I  want,  not  a 
father! " 

"Prince  Beambright  pleases  you,  then?" 
asked  the  rose-tree. 

"  He  is  a  merry,  capering  fellow,"  said  the 
daughter,  "and  so  is  his  friend  Dewlove; 
but  I  do  not  fancy  either.  And  as  for  the 
thrush  who  sends  you  to  speak  for  him, — 
why,  he  is  quite  out  of  the  question,  I  assure 
you.  The  truth  is,  mother,  that  I  am  to  fill 
a  higher  station  than  that  of  bride  to  any  of 
these  simple  rustic  folk.  Am  I  not  more 
beautiful  than  any  of  my  companions,  and 

33 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

have  I  not  ambitions  above  all  others  of  my 
kind?" 

"Whom  have  you  seen  that  you  talk  so 
vain-gloriously  ? "  cried  the  rose-tree  in 
alarm.  "What  flattery  has  instilled  into 
you  this  fatal  poison  ?  " 

"  Have  you  not  seen  the  poet  who  comes 
this  way  every  morning?"  asked  the  rose. 
"  His  face  is  noble,  and  he  sings  grandly  to 
the  pictures  Nature  spreads  before  his  eyes. 
I  should  be  his  bride.  Some  day  he  will  see 
me;  he  will  bear  me  away  upon  his  bosom; 
he  will  indite  to  me  a  poem  that  shall  live 
forever!" 

These  words  the  thrush  heard,  and  his 
heart  sank  within  him.  If  his  songs  that  day 
were  not  so  blithe  as  usual  it  was  because  of 
the  words  that  the  rose  had  spoken.  Yet  the 
thrush  sang  on,  and  his  song  was  full  of  his 
honest  love. 

It  was  the  next  morning  that  the  poet  came 
that  way.  He  lived  in  the  city,  but  each  day 
he  stole  away  from  the  noise  and  crowd  of 
the  city  to  commune  with  himself  and  with 
Nature  in  the  quiet  valley  where  bloomed  the 
rose-tree,  where  the  thrush  sung,  and  where 
M 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

dwelt  the  fays  and  the  elves  of  whom  it  has 
been  spoken.  The  sun  shone  fiercely ;  withal 
the  quiet  valley  was  cool,  and  the  poet  bared 
his  brow  to  the  breeze  that  swept  down  the 
quiet  valley  from  the  lake  over  yonder. 

"The  south  wind  loves  the  rose!  Aha, 
aha,  foolish  brother  to  love  the  rose!  " 

This  was  what  the  breeze  said,  and  the 
poet  heard  it.  Then  his  eyes  fell  upon  the 
rose-tree  and  upon  her  blooming  daughters. 

"The  hoptoad  loves  the  rose!  Foolish 
old  Roughbrown  to  love  the  rose,  aha, 
aha!" 

There  was  a  malicious  squeakiness  in  this 
utterance, —  of  course  it  came  from  that 
envious  Miss  Dormouse,  who  was  forever 
peeping  out  of  her  habitation  in  the  hedge. 

"What  a  beautiful  rose!  "  cried  the  poet, 
and  leaping  over  the  old  stone-wall  he 
plucked  the  rose  from  the  mother-tree, — 
yes,  the  poet  bore  away  this  very  rose  who 
had  hoped  to  be  the  poet's  bride. 

Then  the  rose-tree  wept  bitterly,  and  so 

did  her  other  daughters;   the  south  wind 

wailed,    and  the   old   hoptoad  gave  three 

croaks  so  dolorous  that  if  you  had  heard 

35 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

them  you  would  have  said  that  his  heart 
was  truly  broken.  All  were  sad, —  all  but 
the  envious  dormouse,  who  chuckled  mali 
ciously,  and  said  it  was  no  more  than  they 
deserved. 

The  thrush  saw  the  poet  bearing  ths  rose 
away,  yet  how  could  the  fluttering  little 
creature  hope  to  prevail  against  the  cruel 
invader  ?  What  could  he  do  but  twitter  in 
anguish  ?  So  there  are  tragedies  and  heart 
aches  in  lives  that  are  not  human. 

As  the  poet  returned  to  the  city  he  wore 
the  rose  upon  his  breast.  The  rose  was 
happy,  for  the  poet  spoke  to  her  now  and 
then,  and  praised  her  loveliness,  and  she 
saw  that  her  beauty  had  given  him  an  in 
spiration. 

"The  rose  despised  my  brother!  Aha, 
aha,  foolish  rose, —  but  she  shall  wither!" 

It  was  the  breeze  that  spake ;  far  away  from 
the  lake  in  the  quiet  valley  its  voice  was  very 
low,  but  the  rose  heard  and  trembled. 

"It  's  a  lie,"  cried  the  rose.  "  I  shall  not 
die.  The  poet  loves  me,  and  I  shall  live  for 
ever  upon  his  bosom." 

Yet  a  singular  faintn ess — a  faintness  never 
36 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

felt  before  —  came  upon  the  rose;  she  bent 
her  head  and  sighed.  The  heat — that  was 
all  —  was  very  oppressive,  and  here  at  the 
entrance  to  the  city  the  tumult  aroused  an 
aggravating  dust.  The  poet  seemed  sud 
denly  to  forget  the  rose.  A  carriage  was 
approaching,  and  from  the  carriage  leaned  a 
lady,  who  beckoned  to  the  poet.  The  lady 
was  very  fair,  and  the  poet  hastened  to  an 
swer  her  call.  And  as  he  hastened  the  rose 
fell  from  his  bosom  into  the  hot  highway, 
and  the  poet  paid  no  heed.  Ascending  into 
the  carriage  with  the  lady  (I  am  sure  she 
must  have  been  a  princess!)  the  poet  was 
whirled  away,  and  there  in  the  stifling  dust 
lay  the  fainting  rose,  all  stained  and  dying. 

The  sparrows  flew  down  and  pecked  at 
her  inquisitively ;  the  cruel  wagons  crushed 
her  beneath  their  iron  wheels ;  careless  feet 
buffeted  her  hither  and  thither.  She  was  no 
longer  a  beautiful  rose ;  no,  nor  even  a  rem 
iniscence  of  one, — simply  a  colorless,  scent 
less,  ill-shapen  mass. 

But  all  at  once  she  heard  a  familiar  voice, 
and  then  she  saw  familiar  eyes.     The  voice 
was  tender  and  the  eyes  were  kindly. 
37 


THE  HOLY   CROSS 

"  O  honest  thrush,"  cried  the  rose,  "is  it 
you  who  have  come  to  reproach  me  for  my 
folly?" 

"No,  no,  dear  rose,  "said  the  thrush,  "how 
should  I  speak  ill  to  you  ?  Come,  rest  your 
poor  head  upon  my  breast,  and  let  me  bear 
you  home." 

"  Let  me  rather  die  here,"  sighed  the  rose, 
"  for  it  was  here  that  my  folly  brought  me. 
How  could  I  go  back  with  you  whom  I 
never  so  much  as  smiled  upon  ?  And  do 
they  not  hate  and  deride  me  in  the  valley  ? 
I  would  rather  die  here  in  misery  than  there 
in  shame!" 

"Poor,  broken  flower,  they  love  you," 
urged  the  thrush.  "They  grieve  for  you; 
let  me  bear  you  back  where  the  mother-tree 
will  shade  you,  and  where  the  south  wind 
will  nurse  you  —  for  —  for  he  loves  you." 

So  the  thrush  bore  back  the  withering  rose 
to  her  home  in  the  quiet  valley. 

"So  she  has  come  back,  has  she  ?"  sneered 
the  dormouse.  "Well,  she  has  impudence, 
if  nothing  else! " 

"She  was  pretty  once,"  said  the  old  hop 
toad;  "but  she  lost  her  opportunity  when  1 
38 


made  up  my  mind  to  go  wooing  a  certain 
glossy  damsel  in  the  hedge." 

The  rose-tree  reached  out  her  motherly 
arms  to  welcome  her  dying  daughter,  and 
she  said:  "Rest  here,  dear  one,  and  let  me 
rock  you  to  repose." 

It  was  evening  in  the  quiet  valley  now. 
Where  was  the  south  wind  that  he  came  not 
with  his  wooing?  He  had  flown  to  the 
North,  for  that  day  he  had  heard  the  spring 
time's  voice  a-calling,  and  he  went  in  answer 
to  its  summons.  Everything  was  still. 
"Chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp,  chirp-chirp," 
piped  the  three  crickets,  and  forthwith  the 
fairy  boy  and  the  elf-prince  danced  from  their 
habitations.  Their  little  feet  tinkled  over  the 
clover  and  the  daisies. 

"Hush,  little  folk,"  cried  the  rose-tree. 
"Do  not  dance  to-night, — the  rose  is  dy 
ing." 

But  they  danced  on.  The  rose  did  not 
hear  them ;  she  heard  only  the  voice  of  the 
thrush,  who  perched  in  the  linden  yonder, 
and,  with  a  breaking  heart,  sung  to  the 
dying  flower. 


39 


£f)c  pagan  g>tsfeWi& 


THE  PAGAN  SEAL-WIFE1 


IT  is  to  tell  of  Harold,  the  son  of  Egbert, 
the  son  of  Ib ;  comely  was  he  to  look  upon, 
and  a  braver  than  he  lived  not  in  these  isl 
ands,  nor  one  more  beloved  of  all  people. 
But  it  chanced  upon  a  time,  while  he  was 
still  in  early  manhood,  that  a  grievous  sorrow 
befell  him ;  for  on  a  day  his  mother  Eleanor 
came  to  her  end  in  this  full  evil  wise.  It  was 
her  intent  to  go  unto  the  neighboring  island, 
where  grazed  the  goats  and  the  kine,  and  it 
fortuned  that,  as  she  made  her  way  thither 
in  the  boat,  she  heard  sweet  music,  as  if  one 
played  upon  a  harp  in  the  waters,  and,  look 
ing  over  the  side  of  the  boat,  she  beheld 
down  in  the  waters  a  sea-maiden  making 
those  exceeding  pleasant  sounds.  And  the 
sea-maiden  ceased  to  play,  and  smiled  up  at 
1  Orkney  Folk-Lore. 
43 


THE    HOLY   CROSS 

Eleanor,  and  stretched  up  her  hands  and  be 
sought  Eleanor  to  pluck  her  from  the  sea  into 
the  boat,  which  seeking  to  do,  Eleanor  fell 
headlong  into  the  waters,  and  was  never 
thereafter  seen  either  alive  or  dead  by  any 
of  her  kin.  Now  under  this  passing  heavy 
grief  Egbert,  the  son  of  Ib,  being  old  and 
spent  by  toil,  brake  down,  and  on  a  night 
died,  making  with  his  latest  breath  most 
heavy  lamentation  for  Eleanor,  his  wife;  so 
died  he,  and  his  soul  sped,  as  they  tell,  to 
that  far  northern  land  where  the  souls  of  the 
departed  make  merry  all  the  night,  which 
merriment  sendeth  forth  so  vast  and  so  beau 
tiful  a  light  that  all  the  heavens  are  illumined 
thereby.  But  Harold,  the  son  of  Egbert  and 
of  Eleanor,  was  left  alone,  having  neither 
brother,  nor  sister,  nor  any  of  kin,  save  an 
uncle  abiding  many  leagues  distant  in  Jut 
land.  Thereupon  befell  a  wonderful  thing; 
if  it  had  not  happened  it  would  not  be  told. 
It  chanced  that,  on  a  certain  evening  in 
the  summer-time,  Harold  walked  alone 
where  a  Druid  circle  lay  coiled  like  a  dark 
serpent  on  a  hillside;  his  heart  was  filled 
with  dolor,  for  he  thought  continually  of 

44 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

Eleanor,  his  mother,  and  he  wept  softly  to 
himself  through  love  of  that  dear  mother. 
While  thus  he  walked  in  vast  heaviness  of 
soul,  he  was  beheld  of  Membril,  the  fairy 
that  with  her  goodly  subjects  dwelt  in  the 
ruin  of  the  Pict's  house  hard  by  the  Druid 
circle.  And  Membril  had  compassion  upon 
Harold,  and  upon  the  exceeding  fine  down 
of  a  tiny  sea-bird  she  rode  out  to  meet  him, 
and  it  was  before  his  eyes  as  if  a  star  shined 
out  of  a  mist  in  his  pathway.  So  it  was  that 
Membril  the  fairy  made  herself  known  to 
him,  and  having  so  done,  she  said  and  she 
sung: 

I  am  Membril,  queen  of  Fay, 

That  would  charm  thy  grief  away! 

Thou  art  like  the  little  bark 

Drifting  in  the  cold  and  dark, — 

Drifting  through  the  tempest's  roar 

To  a  rocky,  icy  shore ; 

All  the  torment  dost  thou  feel 

Of  the  spent  and  fearful  seal 

Wounded  by  the  hunter's  steel. 

I  am  Membril, —  hark  to  me: 

Better  times  await  on  thee  ! 

Wouldst  thou  clasp  thy  mother  dear, — 

Strange  things  see  and  stranger  hear  ? 

45 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

Straight  betake  thee  to  thy  boat 
And  to  yonder  haven  float, — 
Go  thy  way,  and  silent  be, — 
It  is  Membril  counsels  thee; 
Go  thy  way,  and  thou  shalt  see  ! 

Great  marvel  had  Harold  to  this  thing; 
nevertheless  he  did  the  bidding  of  Membril 
the  fairy,  and  it  was  full  wisely  done.  And 
presently  he  came  to  where  his  boat  lay, 
half  on  the  shore  and  half  in  the  waters,  and 
he  unloosed  the  thong  that  held  it,  and  en 
tered  into  the  boat;  but  he  put  neither  hand 
to  the  oars  thereof,  for  he  was  intent  to  do 
the  bidding  of  Membril  the  fairy.  Then 
as  if  of  its  own  accord,  or  as  if  the  kindly 
waves  themselves  bore  it  along,  the  boat 
moved  upon  the  waters  and  turned  toward 
the  yonder  haven  whereof  it  was  said  and 
sung.  Fair  shone  the  moon,  and  the  night 
was  passing  fair;  the  shadows  fell  from  the 
hilltops  in  their  sleep  and  lay,  as  they  had 
been  little  weary  children,  in  the  valleys  and 
upon  the  shore,  and  they  were  rocked  in  the 
cradles  of  those  valleys,  and  the  waters  along 
the  shore  sung  softly  to  them.  Upon  the  one 
side  lay  the  island  where  grazed  the  goats 
46 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

and  the  kine,  and  upon  the  other  side  lay  the 
island  where  Harold  and  other  people  abode; 
between  these  islands  crept  the  sea  with  its 
gentle  murmurings,  and  upon  this  sea  drifted 
the  boat  bearing  Harold  to  the  yonder  haven. 
Now  the  haven  whereunto  the  course  lay 
brooded  almost  beneath  the  shadow  of  the 
Stennis  stones,  and  the  waters  thereof  were 
dark,  as  if,  forsooth,  the  sea  frowned  when 
soever  it  saw  those  bloody  stones  peering 
down  into  its  tranquil  bosom.  And  some 
said  that  the  place  was  haunted,  and  that 
upon  each  seventh  night  came  thereunto  the 
spirits  of  them  that  had  been  slain  upon  those 
stones,  and  waved  their  ghostly  arms  and 
wailed  grievously ;  but  of  latter  times  none 
believeth  this  thing  to  be  true. 

It  befell  that,  coming  into  the  haven  and 
bearing  toward  the  shore  thereof,  Harold 
was  'ware  of  sweet  music,  and  presently  he 
saw  figures  as  of  men  and  women  dancing 
upon  the  holm ;  but  neither  could  he  see  who 
these  people  were,  nor  could  he  tell  where- 
from  the  music  came.  But  such  fair  music 
never  had  he  heard  before,  and  with  great 
marvel  he  came  from  the  boat  into  the  clus- 

47 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

ter  of  beech-trees  that  stood  between  the 
haven  and  that  holm  where  the  people 
danced.  Then  of  a  sudden  Harold  saw 
twelve  skins  lying  upon  the  shore  in  the 
moonlight;  and  they  were  the  comeliest  and 
most  precious  sealskins  that  ever  he  saw, 
and  he  coveted  them.  So  presently  he  took 
up  one  of  the  sealskins  and  bore  it  with  him 
into  his  boat,  and  pushed  the  boat  from  the 
shore  into  the  waters  of  the  haven  again, 
and,  so  doing,  there  was  such  plashing  of 
the  waters  that  those  people  dancing  upon 
the  fair  green  holm  became  'ware  of  Harold's 
presence,  and  were  afeared,  so  that,  ceasing 
from  their  sport,  they  made  haste  down  to 
the  shore  and  did  on  the  skins  and  dived 
into  the  waters  with  shrill  cries.  But  there 
was  one  of  them  that  could  not  do  so,  be 
cause  Harold  bore  off  that  skin  wherewith 
she  was  wont  to  begird  herself,  and  when 
she  found  it  not  she  wailed  and  wept  and 
besought  Harold  to  give  her  that  skin  again,  — 
and,  lo!  it  was  Eleanor,  the  wife  of  Egbert! 
Now  when  Harold  saw  that  it  was  his  mo 
ther  that  so  entreated  him  he  was  filled  with 
wonder,  and  he  drew  nearer  the  shore  to  re- 
48 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

gard  her  and  to  hear  her  words,  for  he  loved 
her  passing  well.  But  he  denied  her  that 
skin,  knowing  full  well  that  so  soon  as  she 
possessed  it  she  would  leave  him  and  he 
should  never  again  behold  her.  Then  El 
eanor  related  to  him  how  that  she  had  been 
drowned  in  the  sea  through  treachery  of  the 
harp-maiden,  and  how  that  the  souls  of 
drowned  people  entered  into  the  bodies  of 
seals,  nor  were  permitted  to  return  to  earth, 
save  only  one  night  in  every  month,  at  which 
time  each  recovered  his  human  shape  and 
was  suffered  to  dance  in  the  moonlight  upon 
the  fair  green  holm  from  the  hour  of  sunset 
unto  the  hour  of  sunrise. 

' '  Give  me  the  skin,  I  pray  thee, "  she  cried, 
"for  if  the  sun  came  upon  me  unawares  I 
should  crumble  into  dust  before  thine  eyes, 
and  that  moment  would  a  curse  fall  upon 
you.  I  am  happy  as  I  am ;  the  sea  and  those 
who  dwell  therein  are  good  to  me, —  give 
me  the  skin,  I  beseech  thee,  that  I  may  return 
whence  I  came,  and  thereby  shall  a  great 
blessing  accrue  to  thee  and  thine." 

But  Harold  said:  "Nay,  mother,  I  were  a 
fool  to  part  so  cheerfully  with  one  whom  I 

49 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

love  dearer  than  life  itself !  I  shall  not  let 
you  go  so  easily;  you  shall  come  with  me 
to  our  home,  where  I  have  lived  alone  too 
long  already.  I  shall  be  alone  no  longer,— 
come  with  me,  I  say,  for  I  will  not  deliver 
up  this  skin,  nor  shall  any  force  wrest  it  from 
me! " 

Then  Eleanor,  his  mother,  reasoned  a  space 
with  him,  and  anon  she  showed  him  the  folly 
of  his  way ;  but  still  he  hung  his  head  upon 
his  breast  and  was  loath  to  do  her  bidding, 
until  at  last  she  sware  unto  him  that  if  he 
gave  to  her  that  skin  he  should,  upon  the 
next  dancing  night,  have  to  wife  the  most 
beautiful  maiden  in  the  world,  and  therefore 
should  be  alone  in  the  world  no  more.  To 
this  presently  Harold  gave  assent,  and  then 
Eleanor,  his  mother,  bade  him  come  to  that 
same  spot  one  month  hence,  and  do  what 
she  should  then  bid  him  do.  Receiving, 
therefore,  the  skin  from  him,  she  folded  it 
about  her  and  threw  herself  into  the  sea,  and 
Harold  betook  himself  unto  his  home. 

Now  wit  ye  well  that  full  wearily  dragged 
the  days  and  the  nights  until  that  month  was 
spent;  but  now  at  last  it  was  the  month  of 
50 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

August,  and  upon  the  night  of  the  seventh 
day  thereof  ended  the  season  of  waiting.  It 
is  to  tell  that  upon  that  night  came  Harold, 
the  son  of  Egbert,  from  his  hut,  and  stood 
on  the  threshold  thereof,  and  awaited  the 
rising  of  the  moon  from  out  the  silver  waters 
yonder.  While  thus  he  stood  there  appeared 
unto  him  Membril  the  fairy,  and  smiling  upon 
him  she  said  and  she  sung: — 

I  am  Membril,  queen  of  Fay, 
Come  to  urge  thee  on  thy  way ; 
Haste  to  yonder  haven-side 
Where  awaits  thy  promised  bride; 
Daughter  of  a  king  is  she, — 
Many  leagues  she  comes  to  thee, 
Thine  and  only  thine  to  be. 
Haste  and  see,  then  come  again 
To  thy  pretty  home,  and,  when 
Smiles  the  sun  on  earth  once  more, 
Will  come  knocking  at  thy  door ; 
Open  then,  and  to  thy  breast 
Clasp  whom  thou  shalt  love  the  best ! 
It  is  Membril  counsels  thee, — 
Haste  and  see  what  thou  shalt  see  ! 

Now  by  this  thing  was  Harold  mightily 
rejoiced,  and  he  believed  it  to  be  truth  that 
great  good  was  in  store  for  him  ;  for  he  had 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

seen  pleasant  things  in  the  candle  a  many 
nights,  and  the  smoke  from  his  fire  blew 
cheerily  and  lightly  to  the  westward,  and  a 
swan  had  circled  over  his  house  that  day 
week,  and  in  his  net  each  day  for  twice 
seven  days  had  he  drawn  from  the  sea  a  fish 
having  one  golden  eye  and  one  silver  eye: 
which  things,  as  all  men  know,  portend  full 
goodly  things,  or  else  they  portend  nothing 
at  all  whatsoever.  So,  being  pleasantly 
minded,  Harold  returned  in  kind  unto  Mem- 
bril,  the  fairy  queen,  that  bespoke  him  so 
courteously,  and  to  her  and  to  them  that  bore 
her  company  he  said  and  he  sung: — 

Welcome,  bonnie  queen  of  Fay! 

For  thou  speakest  pleasing  words  ; 
Thou  shalt  have  a  gill  of  whey 

And  a  thimblefull  of  curds  ; 
In  this  rose  is  honey-dew 
That  a  bee  hath  brought  for  you  ! 

Welcome,  bonnie  queen  of  Fay  ! 

Call  thy  sisters  from  the  gloam, 
And,  whilst  1  am  on  my  way, 

Feast  and  frolic  in  my  home, — 
Kiss  the  moonbeams,  blanching  white, 
Shrinking,  shivering  with  affright ! 

53 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

Welcome,  all,  and  have  no  fear, — 

There  is  flax  upon  the  sill, 
No  foul  sprite  can  enter  here, — 

Feast  and  frolic  as  you  will; 
Feast  and  frisk  till  break  of  day, — 
Welcome,  little  folk  of  Fay  ! 

Thus  having  said  and  thus  having  sung, 
Harold  went  upon  his  way,  and  came  to  his 
boat  and  entered  into  it  and  journeyed  to  the 
haven  where  some  time  he  had  seen  and 
discoursed  with  Eleanor,  his  mother.  His 
course  to  this  same  haven  lay,  as  before, 
over  the  waters  that  stole  in  between  the 
two  islands  from  the  great  sea  beyond.  Fair 
shone  the  moon,  and  the  night  was  passing 
fair;  the  shadows  rolled  from  the  hilltops  in 
their  sleep  and  lay  like  little  weary  children 
in  the  valleys  and  upon  the  shore,  and  they 
were  rocked  in  the  cradles  of  those  valleys, 
and  the  waters  along  the  shore  sung  softly 
to  them.  Upon  this  hand  lay  the  island 
where  the  goats  and  the  kine  found  sweet 
pasturage,  and  upon  the  other  hand  stretched 
the  island  where  people  abode,  and  where 
the  bloody  Stennis  stones  rebuked  the  smil 
ing  sky,  and  where  ghosts  walked  and  wailed 

53 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

and  waved  their  white  arms  in  the  shadows 
of  those  haunted  ruins  where  once  upon  a 
time  the  Picts  had  dwelt.  And  Harold's 
heart  was  full  of  joy,  the  more  in  especial 
when,  as  he  bore  nigh  unto  the  haven,  he 
heard  sweet  music  and  beheld  a  goodly 
company  of  people  that  danced  in  the  moon 
light  upon  the  fair  green  holm.  Then,  when 
presently  his  boat  touched  the  inner  shore  of 
the  haven,  and  he  departed  therefrom  and 
drew  the  boat  upon  the  shore,  he  saw 
wherefrom  issued  the  beautiful  music  to 
which  the  people  danced;  he  saw  that  the 
waters  reached  out  their  white  fingers  and 
touched  the  kale  and  the  fair  pebbles  and 
the  brittle  shells  and  the  moss  upon  the 
beach,  and  these  things  gave  forth  sweet 
sounds,  which  were  as  if  a  thousand  attuned 
harps  vied  with  the  singing  of  the  summer- 
night  winds.  Then,  as  before,  Harold  saw 
sealskins  lying  upon  the  shore,  and  presently 
came  Eleanor,  his  mother,  and  pointing  to  a 
certain  fair  velvet  skin,  she  said:  "Take 
that  fair  velvet  skin  into  thy  boat  and  speed 
with  all  haste  to  thy  home.  To-morrow  at 
sunrise  thy  bride  shall  come  knocking  at  thy 

54 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

door.  And  so,  farewell,  my  son, —  oh, 
Harold,  my  only  son!"  Which  saying, 
Eleanor,  the  wife  of  Egbert,  drew  a  skin 
about  her  and  leapt  into  the  sea;  nor  was 
she  ever  thereafter  beholden  of  human  eyes. 

Then  Harold  took  up  the  fair  velvet  skin 
to  which  his  mother  had  directed  him,  and  he 
bore  it  away  with  him  in  his  boat.  So  softly 
went  he  upon  the  waters  that  none  of  them 
that  danced  upon  the  fair  green  holm  either 
saw  or  heard  him.  Still  danced  they  on  to  the 
sweet  music  made  by  the  white  fingers  of  the 
waves,  and  still  shone  the  white  moon  upon 
the  fair  green  holm  where  they  so  danced. 

Now  when  came  Harold  to  his  home, 
bearing  the  precious  skin  with  him,  he  saw 
the  fairies  at  play  upon  the  floor  of  his  hut, 
and  they  feared  no  evil,  for  there  was  barley 
strewn  upon  the  sill  so  that  no  wicked  sprite 
could  enter  there.  And  when  Membril,  the 
fairy  queen,  saw  him  bringing  the  skin  that 
he  had  found  upon  the  shore,  she  bade  him 
good  welcome,  and  she  said  and  she  sung :  — 

I  am  Membril,  queen  of  Fay, — 
Ponder  well  what  words  I  say; 

55 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

Hide  that  fair  and  velvet  skin 

Some  secluded  spot  within; 

In  the  tree  where  ravens  croak, — 

In  the  hollow  of  the  oak, 

In  the  cave  with  mosses  lined, 

In  the  earth  where  none  may  find; 

Hide  it  quick  and  hide  it  deep, — 

So  secure  shall  be  thy  sleep, 

Thine  shall  bride  and  blessings  be, 

Thine  a  fair  posterity, — 

So  doth  Membril  counsel  thee! 

So,  pondering  upon  this  counsel  and  think 
ing  well  of  it,  Harold  took  the  fair  velvet 
skin  and  hid  it,  and  none  knew  where  it  was 
hid, —  none  save  only  the  raven  that  lived  in 
the  hollow  oak.  And  when  he  had  so  done 
he  returned  unto  his  home  and  lay  upon  his 
bed  and  slept.  It  came  to  pass  that  early 
upon  the  morrow,  when  the  sun  made  all  the 
eastward  sky  blush  for  the  exceeding  ardor 
of  his  morning  kiss,  there  came  a  knocking 
at  the  door  of  Harold's  hut,  and  Harold 
opened  the  door,  and  lo!  there  stood  upon 
the  threshold  the  fairest  maiden  that  eyes 
ever  beheld.  Unlike  was  she  to  maidens 
dwelling  in  those  islands,  for  her  hair  was 
black  as  the  waters  of  the  long  winter  night, 
56 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

and  her  eyes  were  as  the  twin  midnight 
rocks  that  look  up  from  the  white  waves  of 
the  moonlit  sea  in  yonder  reef;  withal  was 
she  most  beautiful  to  look  upon,  and  her 
voice  was  as  music  that  stealeth  to  one  over 
pleasant  waters. 

The  maiden's  name  was  Persis,  and  she 
was  the  daughter  of  a  Pagan  king  that  ruled 
in  a  country  many,  many  —  oh,  many  leagues 
to  the  southward  of  these  islands,  in  a  coun 
try  where  unicorns  and  dragons  be,  and 
where  dwelleth  the  phoenix  and  hippogriffms 
and  the  cockatrix,  and  where  bloometh  a 
tree  that  runneth  blood,  and  where  mighty 
princes  do  wondrous  things.  Now  it  for 
tuned  that  the  king  was  minded  to  wed  his 
daughter  Persis  unto  a  neighboring  prince, 
a  high  and  mighty  prince,  but  one  whom 
Persis  loved  not,  neither  could  she  love.  So 
for  the  first  time  Persis  said,  "Nay,  I  will 
not,"  unto  her  father's  mandate,  whereat  the 
king  was  passing  wroth,  and  he  put  his 
daughter  in  a  place  that  was  like  a  jail  to 
her,  for  it  was  where  none  might  see  her, 
and  where  she  might  see  none, —  none  but 
those  that  attended  upon  her.  This  much 

57 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

told  Persis,  the  Pagan  princess,  unto  Harold, 
and  then,  furthermore,  she  said :  "The place 
wherein  I  was  put  by  the  king,  my  father, 
was  hard  by  the  sea,  and  oftentimes  I  went 
thereon  in  my  little  boat,  and  once,  looking 
down  from  that  boat  into  the  sea,  I  saw  the 
face  of  a  fair  young  man  within  a  magic 
mirror  that  was  held  up  in  the  waters  of  the 
sea  by  two  ghostly  hands,  and  the  fair  young 
man  moved  his  lips  and  smiled  at  me,  and 
methought  I  heard  him  say:  'Come,  be  my 
bride,  O  fair  and  gentle  Persis ! '  But,  vastly 
afeared,  I  cried  out  and  put  back  again  to 
shore.  Yet  in  my  dreams  I  saw  that  face 
and  heard  that  voice,  nor  could  I  find  any 
rest  until  I  came  upon  the  sea  again  in  hope 
to  see  the  face  and  hear  the  voice  once  more. 
Then,  that  second  time,  as  I  looked  into  the 
sea,  another  face  came  up  from  below  and 
lifted  above  the  waters,  and  a  woman's  voice 
spake  thus  to  me:  'I  am  mother  of  him  that 
loveth  thee  and  whom  thou  lovest;  his  face 
hast  thou  seen  in  the  mirror,  and  of  thee  I 
have  spoken  to  him ;  come,  let  me  bear  thee 
as  a  bride  to  him! '  And  in  that  moment  a 
faintness  came  upon  me  and  I  fell  into  her 

58 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

arms,  and  so  was  I  drowned  (as  men  say), 
and  so  was  I  a  seal  a  little  space  until  last 
dancing  night,  when,  lo!  some  one  brought 
me  to  life  again,  and  one  that  said  her  name 
was  Membril  showed  me  the  way  unto  thy 
door.  And  now  I  look  upon  thy  face  in 
truth,  and  thou  art  he  who  shall  have  me  to 
his  wife,  for  thou  art  he  whose  face  I  saw 
within  the  mirror  which  the  ghostly  hands 
bore  up  to  me  that  day  upon  the  sea!" 

Great  then  was  Harold's  joy,  and  he  folded 
her  in  his  arms,  and  he  spake  sweet  words 
to  her,  and  she  was  content.  So  they  were 
wed  that  very  day,  and  there  came  to  do 
them  honor  all  the  folk  upon  these  islands: 
Dougal  and  Tarn  and  Ib  and  Robbie  and 
Nels  and  Gram  and  Rupert  and  Rolf  and 
many  others  and  all  their  kin,  and  they 
made  merry,  and  it  was  well.  And  never 
spake  the  Pagan  princess  of  that  soft  velvet 
skin  which  Harold  had  hid  away, —  never 
spake  she  of  it  to  him  or  to  any  other  one. 

It  is  to  tell  that  to  Harold  and  to  Persis 
were  born  these  children,  and  in  this  order: 
Egbert  and  Ib  (that  was  nicknamed  the 
Strong)  and  Harold  and  Joan  and  Tarn  and 

59 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

Annie  and  Rupert  the  Fair  and  Flocken  and 
Elsa  and  Albert  and  Theodoric, —  these 
eleven  children  were  born  unto  them  in  good 
time;  and  right  fair  children  were  they  to  see, 
comely  and  stout,  yet  sweetly  minded  withal. 
And  prosperous  times  continually  befell  Har 
old;  his  herds  multiplied,  and  the  fish  came 
into  his  nets,  so  that  presently  there  was  none 
other  richer  than  he  in  all  that  country,  and 
he  did  great  good  with  his  riches,  for  he  had 
compassion  to  the  poor.  So  Harold  was  be 
loved  of  all,  and  all  spake  full  fairly  of  his 
wife,  —  how  that  she  cared  for  his  little  ones, 
and  kept  the  house,  and  did  deeds  of  sweet 
charity  among  the  needy  and  distressed, — 
ay,  so  was  Persis,  the  wife  of  Harold,  beloved 
of  all,  and  by  none  other  more  than  by  Har 
old,  who  was  wont  to  say  that  Persis  had 
brought  him  all  he  loved  best:  his  children, 
his  fortune,  his  happiness,  and,  best  of  all, 
herself.  So  now  they  were  wed  twice  seven 
years,  and  in  that  time  was  Persis  still  as 
young  and  fair  to  look  upon  as  when  she 
came  to  Harold's  door  for  the  first  time  and 
knocked.  This  I  account  to  be  a  marvel, 
but  still  more  a  marvel  was  it  that  in  all  these 
60 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

years  spake  she  never  a  word  of  that  soft 
velvet  skin  which  Harold  took  and  hid, — 
never  a  word  to  him  nor  to  any  one  else. 
But  the  soft  velvet  skin  lay  meanwhile  in  the 
hollow  of  the  oak,  and  in  the  branches  of 
that  tree  perched  a  raven  that  croaked  and 
croaked  and  croaked. 

Now  it  befell  upon  a  time  that  a  ship 
touched  at  that  island,  and  there  came  there 
from  men  that  knelt  down  upon  the  shore 
and  made  strange  prayers  to  a  strange  God, 
and  forthwith  uplifted  in  that  island  a  sym 
bol  of  wood  in  the  similitude  of  a  cross. 
Straightway  went  Harold  with  the  rest  to 
know  the  cause  thereof,  being  fearful  lest 
for  this  impiety  their  own  gods,  whom  they 
served  diligently,  should  send  hail  and  fire 
upon  them  and  their  herds.  But  those  that 
had  come  in  the  ship  spake  gently  with 
them  and  showed  themselves  to  be  peaceful 
folk  whose  God  delighted  not  in  wars,  but 
rather  in  gentleness  and  love.  How  it  was, 
I,  knowing  not,  cannot  say,  but  presently 
the  cause  of  that  new  God,  whose  law  was 
gentleness  and  love,  waxed  mightily,  and 
the  people  came  from  all  around  to  kiss  that 
6. 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

cross  and  worship  it.  And  among  them 
came  Harold,  for  in  his  heart  had  dawned 
the  light  of  a  new  wisdom,  and  he  knew  the 
truth  as  we  know  it,  you  and  I.  So  Harold 
was  baptized  in  the  Christian  faith,  he  and 
his  children;  but  Persis,  his  wife,  was  not 
baptized,  for  she  was  the  daughter  of  a 
Pagan  king,  and  she  feared  to  bring  evil 
upon  those  she  loved  by  doing  any  blas 
phemous  thing.  Right  sorely  grieved  was 
Harold  because  of  this,  and  oftentimes  he 
spake  with  her  thereof,  and  oftentimes  he 
prayed  unto  his  God  and  ours  to  incline  her 
mind  toward  the  cross,  which  saveth  all  alike. 
But  Persis  would  say:  "My  best  beloved, 
let  me  not  do  this  thing  in  haste,  for  I  fear 
to  vex  thy  God  since  I  am  a  Pagan  and  the 
daughter  of  a  Pagan  king,  and  therefore 
have  not  within  me  the  light  that  there  is  in 
thee  and  thy  kind.  Perchance  (since  thy 
God  is  good  and  gracious)  the  light  will 
come  to  me  anon,  and  shine  before  mine 
eyes  as  it  shineth  before  thine.  I  pray  thee, 
let  me  bide  my  time."  So  spake  Persis,  and 
her  life  ever  thereafter  was  kind  and  char 
itable,  as,  soothly,  it  had  ever  before  been, 
62 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

and  she  served  Harold,  her  husband,  well, 
and  she  was  beloved  of  all,  and  a  great 
sweetness  came  to  all  out  of  her  daily  life. 

It  fortuned,  upon  a  day  whilst  Harold  was 
from  home,  there  was  knocking  at  the  door 
of  their  house,  and  forthwith  the  door  opened 
and  there  stood  in  the  midst  of  them  one 
clad  all  in  black  and  of  rueful  countenance. 
Then,  as  if  she  foresaw  evil,  Persis  called 
unto  her  little  ones  and  stood  between  them 
and  that  one  all  in  black,  and  she  demanded 
of  him  his  name  and  will.  "  I  am  the  Death- 
Angel,"  quoth  he,  "  and  I  come  for  the  best- 
beloved  of  thy  lambs! " 

NowTheodoric  was  that  best-beloved;  for 
he  was  her  very  little  one,  and  had  always 
slept  upon  her  bosom.  So  when  she  heard 
those  words  she  made  a  great  outcry,  and 
wrestled  with  the  Death-Angel,  and  sought 
to  stay  him  in  his  purpose.  But  the  Death- 
Angel  chilled  her  with  his  breath,  and  over 
came  her,  and  prevailed  against  her;  and  he 
reached  into  the  midst  of  them  and  took 
Theodoric  in  his  arms  and  folded  him  upon 
his  breast,  and  Theodoric  fell  asleep  there, 
and  his  head  dropped  upon  the  Death-Angel's 

63 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

shoulder.  But  in  her  battle  for  the  child,  Per- 
sis  catched  at  the  chain  about  the  child's  neck, 
and  the  chain  brake  and  remained  in  her  hand, 
and  upon  the  chain  was  the  little  cross  of  fair 
alabaster  which  an  holy  man  had  put  there 
when  Theodoric  was  baptized.  So  the  Death- 
Angel  went  his  way  with  that  best-beloved 
lamb,  and  Persis  fell  upon  her  face  and  wailed. 
The  years  went  on  and  all  was  well  upon 
these  islands.  Egbert  became  a  mighty 
fisherman,  and  Ib  (that  was  nicknamed  the 
Strong)  wrought  wondrous  things  in  Norro- 
way,  as  all  men  know;  Joan  was  wed  to 
Cuthbert  the  Dane,  and  Flocken  was  wooed 
of  a  rich  man's  son  of  Scotland.  So  were 
all  things  for  good  and  for  the  best,  and  it 
was  a  marvel  to  all  that  Persis,  the  wife  of 
Harold,  looked  still  to  be  as  young  and  beau 
tiful  as  when  she  came  from  the  sea  to  be 
her  husband's  bride.  Her  life  was  full  of 
gentleness  and  charity,  and  all  folk  blessed 
her.  But  never  in  all  these  years  spake  she 
aught  to  any  one  of  the  fair  velvet  skin ;  and 
through  all  the  years  that  skin  lay  hid  in  the 
hollow  of  the  oak-tree,  where  the  raven 
croaked  and  croaked  and  croaked. 
64 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

At  last  upon  a  time  a  malady  fell  upon 
Persis,  and  a  strange  light  came  into  her 
eyes,  and  naught  they  did  was  of  avail  to 
her.  One  day  she  called  Harold  to  her,  and 
said:  "My  beloved,  the  time  draweth  near 
when  we  twain  must  part.  I  pray  thee,  send 
for  the  holy  man,  for  I  would  fain  be  bap 
tized  in  thy  faith  and  in  the  faith  of  our 
children."  So  Harold  fetched  the  holy  man, 
and  Persis,  the  daughter  of  the  Pagan  king, 
was  baptized,  and  she  spake  freely  and  full 
sweetly  of  her  love  to  Jesus  Christ,  her 
Saviour,  and  she  prayed  to  be  taken  into  his 
rest.  And  when  she  was  baptized,  there 
was  given  to  her  the  name  of  Ruth,  which 
was  most  fairly  done,  I  trow,  for  sooth ly 
she  had  been  the  friend  of  all. 

Then,  when  the  holy  man  was  gone,  she 
said  to  her  husband:  "Beloved,  I  beseech 
thee  go  to  yonder  oak-tree,  and  bring  me 
from  the  hollow  thereof  the  fair  velvet  skin 
that  hath  lain  therein  so  many  years." 

Then  Harold  marvelled,  and  he  cried: 
"Who  told  thee  that  the  fair  velvet  skin 
was  hidden  there  ?  " 

"The  raven  told  me  all,"  she  answered; 

65 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

"and  had  I  been  so  minded  I  might  have 
left  thee  long  ago, — thee  and  our  little  ones. 
But  I  loved  thee  and  them,  and  the  fair  vel 
vet  skin  hath  been  unseen  of  me." 

"And  wouldst  thou  leave  us  now?"  he 
cried.  "Nay,  it  shall  not  be!  Thou  shalt 
not  see  that  fair  velvet  skin,  for  this  very  day 
will  I  cast  it  into  the  seal " 

But  she  put  an  arm  about  his  neck  and 
said:  "This  night,  dear  one,  we  part;  but 
whether  we  shall  presently  be  joined  to 
gether  in  another  life  I  know  not,  neither 
canst  thou  say;  for  I,  having  been  a  Pagan 
and  the  daughter  of  a  Pagan  king,  may  by 
my  birth  and  custom  have  so  grievously 
offended  our  true  God  that  even  in  his  com 
passion  and  mercy  he  shall  not  find  pardon 
for  me.  Therefore  I  would  have  thee  fetch  — 
since  I  shall  die  this  night  and  do  require  of 
thee  this  last  act  of  kindness — I  would  have 
thee  fetch  that  same  fair  velvet  skin  from 
yonder  oak-tree,  and  wrap  me  therein,  and 
bear  me  hence,  and  lay  me  upon  the  green 
holm  by  the  farther  haven,  for  this  is  dancing 
night,  and  the  seal-folk  shall  come  from  the 
sea  as  is  their  wont.  Thou  shalt  lay  me,  so 
66 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

wrapped  within  that  fair  velvet  skin,  upon 
that  holm,  and  thou  shalt  go  a  space  aside 
and  watch  throughout  the  night,  coming  not 
anear  me  (as  thou  lovest  me ! )  until  the  dawn 
breaks,  nor  shalt  thou  make  any  outcry,  but 
thou  shalt  wait  until  the  night  is  sped.  Then, 
when  thou  comest  at  daybreak  to  the  holm, 
if  thou  findest  me  in  the  fair  velvet  skin  thou 
shalt  know  that  my  sin  hath  been  pardoned ; 
but  if  I  be  not  there  thou  may'st  know  that, 
being  a  Pagan,  the  seal-folk  have  borne  me 
back  into  the  sea  unto  my  kind.  Thus  do  I 
require  of  thee ;  swear  so  to  do,  and  let  thy 
beloved  bless  thee." 

So  Harold  swore  to  do,  and  so  he  did. 
Straightway  he  went  to  the  oak-tree  and 
took  from  the  hollow  thereof  the  fair  velvet 
skin;  seeing  which  deed,  the  raven  flew 
away  and  was  never  thereafter  seen  in  these 
islands.  And  with  a  heavy  heart,  and  with 
full  many  a  caress  and  word  of  love,  did 
Harold  bind  his  fair  wife  in  that  same  velvet 
skin,  and  he  bore  her  to  his  boat,  and  they 
went  together  upon  the  waters ;  for  he  had 
sworn  so  to  do.  His  course  unto  the  haven 
lay  as  before  over  the  waters  that  stole  in 
67 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

between  the  two  islands  from  the  great 
troubled  sea  beyond.  Fair  shone  the  moon, 
and  the  night  was  passing  fair;  the  shadows 
lay  asleep,  like  little  weary  children,  in  the  val 
leys,  and  the  waters  moaned,  and  the  winds 
rebuked  the  white  fingers  that  stretched  up 
from  the  waves  to  clutch  them.  And  when 
they  were  come  to  the  inner  shore  of  the 
haven,  Harold  took  his  wife  and  bore  her 
up  the  bank  and  laid  her  where  the  light 
came  down  from  the  moon  and  slept  full 
sweetly  upon  the  fragrant  sward.  Then, 
kissing  her,  he  went  his  way  and  sat  be 
hind  the  Stennis  stones  a  goodly  space  be 
yond,  and  there  he  kept  his  watch,  as  he  had 
sworn  to  do. 

Now  wit  ye  well  a  grievous  heavy  watch 
it  was  that  night,  for  his  heart  yearned  for 
that  beloved  wife  that  lay  that  while  upon 
the  fair  green  holm, — ay,  never  before  had 
night  seemed  so  long  to  Harold  as  did  that 
dancing  night  when  he  waited  for  the  seal- 
folk  to  come  where  the  some-time  Pagan 
princess  lay  wrapped  in  the  fair  velvet  skin. 
But  while  he  watched  and  waited,  Membril, 
the  fairy  queen,  came  and  brought  others  of 

68 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

her  kind  with  her,  and  they  made  a  circle 
about  Harold,  and  threw  around  him  such  a 
charm  that  no  evil  could  befall  him  from 
the  ghosts  and  ghouls  that  in  their  shrouds 
walked  among  those  bloody  stones  and 
wailed  wofully  and  waved  their  white 
arms.  For  Membril,  coming  to  Harold  in 
the  similitude  of  a  glow-worm,  made  her 
self  known  to  him,  and  she  said  and  she 
sung: 

Loving  heart,  be  calm  a  space 
In  this  gloomy  vigil  place; 
Though  these  confines  haunted  be 
Naught  of  harm  can  come  to  thee — 
Nothing  canst  thou  see  or  hear 
Of  the  ghosts  that  stalk  anear, 
For  around  thee  Membril  flings 
Charms  of  Fay  and  fairy  rings. 

Nothing  daunted  was  Harold  by  thoughts 
of  evil  monsters,  and  naught  recked  he  of 
the  uncanny  dangers  of  that  haunted  place; 
but  he  addressed  these  words  to  Membril 
and  her  host,  and  he  said  and  he  sung: 

Tell  me  if  thy  piercing  eyes 

See  the  inner  haven  shore. 
There  my  Own  Beloved  lies, 

With  the  cowslips  bending  o'er: 

69 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

Speed,  O  gentle  folk  of  Fay! 
And  in  guise  of  cowslips  say 
I  shall  love  my  love  for  aye! 

Even  so  did  Membril  and  the  rest;  and 
presently  they  returned,  and  they  brought 
these  words  unto  Harold,  saying  and  singing 
them :  — 

We  as  cowslips  in  that  place 
Clustered  round  thy  dear  one's  face, 
And  we  whispered  to  her  there 
Those  same  words  we  went  to  bear; 
And  she  smiled  and  bade  us  then 
Bear  these  words  to  thee  again : 
"  Die  we  shall,  and  part  we  may, — 
Love  is  love  and  lives  for  aye!  " 

Then  of  a  sudden  there  was  a  tumult  upon 
the  waters,  as  if  the  waters  were  troubled, 
and  there  came  up  out  of  the  waters  a  host 
of  seals  that  made  their  way  to  the  shore 
and  cast  aside  their  skins  and  came  forth  in 
the  forms  of  men  and  of  women,  for  they 
were  the  drowned  folk  that  were  come,  as 
was  their  wont,  to  dance  in  the  moonlight 
upon  the  fair  green  holm.  At  that  moment 
the  waters  stretched  out  their  white  fingers 
70 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

and  struck  the  kale  and  the  pebbles  and  the 
soft  moss  upon  the  beach,  for  they  sought  to 
make  music  for  the  seal-folk  to  dance  there 
by  ;  but  the  music  that  was  made  was  not 
merry  nor  gleeful,  but  was  passing  gruesome 
and  mournful.  And  presently  the  seal-folk 
came  where  lay  the  wife  of  Harold  wrapped 
in  the  fair  velvet  skin,  and  they  knew  her  of 
old,  and  they  called  her  by  what  name  she 
was  known  to  them,  "  Persis!  Persis!  "  over 
and  over  again,  and  there  was  great  wailing 
among  the  seal-folk  for  a  mighty  space;  and 
the  seal-folk  danced  never  at  all  that  night, 
but  wailed  about  the  wife  of  Harold,  and 
called  "  Persis!  Persis!  "  over  and  over  again, 
and  made  great  moan.  And  at  last  all  was 
still  once  more,  for  the  seal-folk,  weeping 
and  clamoring  grievously,  went  back  into 
the  sea,  and  the  sea  sobbed  itself  to  sleep. 

Mindful  of  the  oath  he  swore,  Harold  dared 
not  go  down  to  that  shore,  but  he  besought 
Membril,  the  queen  of  Fay,  to  fetch  him  tid 
ings  from  his  beloved,  whether  she  still  lay 
upon  the  holm,  or  whether  the  seal-folk  had 
borne  her  away  with  them  into  the  waters 
of  the  deep.  But  Membril  might  not  go,  nor 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

any  of  her  host,  for  already  the  dawn  was  in 
the  east  and  the  kine  were  lowing  on  yonder 
slope.  So  Harold  was  left  alone  a  tedious 
time,  until  the  sun  looked  upon  the  earth, 
and  then,  with  clamoring  heart,  Harold  came 
from  the  Stennis  stones  and  leapt  downward 
to  the  holm  where  his  beloved  had  lain  that 
weary  while.  Then  he  saw  that  the  fair 
velvet  skin  was  still  there,  and  presently  he 
saw  that  within  the  skin  his  beloved  still  re 
posed.  He  called  to  her,  but  she  made  no 
answer;  with  exceeding  haste  he  kneeled 
down  and  did  off  the  fair  velvet  skin,  and 
folded  his  beloved  to  his  breast.  The  sun 
shone  full  upon  her  glorious  face  and  kissed 
away  the  dew  that  clung  to  her  white  cheeks. 
"Thou  art  redeemed,  O  my  beloved!" 
cried  Harold;  but  her  lips  spake  not,  and 
her  eyes  opened  not  upon  him.  Yet  on  the 
dead  wife's  face  was  such  a  smile  as  angels 
wear,  and  it  told  him  that  they  should  meet 
again  in  a  love  that  knoweth  no  fear  of  part 
ing.  And  as  Harold  held  her  to  his  bosom 
and  wailed,  there  fell  down  from  her  hand 
what  she  had  kept  with  her  to  the  last,  and 
it  lay  upon  the  fair  green  holm, —  the  little 

12 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

alabaster  cross  which  she  had  snatched  from 
Theodoric's  neck  that  day  the  Death-Angel 
bore  the  child  away. 

It  was  to  tell  of  Harold,  the  son  of  Egbert, 
the  son  of  Ib,  and  of  Persis,  his  wife,  daugh 
ter  of  the  Pagan  king;  and  it  hath  been  told. 
And  there  is  no  more  to  tell,  for  the  tale  is 
ended. 


73 


V 


FLAIL,    TRASK,    AND   B1SLAND 


MY  quondam  friends,  Flail,  Trask,  and 
Bisland,  are  no  more;  they  are  dead, 
and  with  them  has  gone  out  of  existence  as 
gross  an  imposition  as  the  moral  cowardice 
of  man  were  capable  of  inventing,  construct 
ing,  and  practising. 

When  Alice  became  my  wife  she  knew 
that  I  was  a  lover  and  collector  of  books, 
but,  being  a  young  thing,  she  had  no  idea  of 
the  monstrous  proportions  which  biblio 
mania,  unchecked,  is  almost  certain  to  ac 
quire.  Indeed,  the  dear  girl  innocently  and 
rapturously  encouraged  this  insidious  vice. 
"Some  time,"  she  used  to  say,  "we  shall 
have  a  house  of  our  own,  and  then  your 
library  shall  cover  the  whole  top-floor,  and 
the  book-cases  shall  be  built  in  the  walls, 
and  there  shall  be  a  lovely  blue-glass  sky- 
77 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

light,"  etc.  Moreover,  although  she  could 
not  tell  the  difference  between  an  Elzevir  and 
a  Pickering,  or  between  a  folio  and  an  octavo, 
Alice  was  very  proud  of  our  little  library,  and 
I  recall  now  with  real  delight  the  times  I  used 
to  hear  her  showing  off  those  precious  books 
to  her  lady  callers.  Alice  made  up  for  certain 
inaccuracies  of  information  with  a  distinct 
enthusiasm  and  garrulity  that  never  failed 
to  impress  her  callers  deeply.  I  was  mighty 
proud  of  Alice;  I  was  prepared  to  say,  para 
phrasing  Sam  Johnson's  remark  about  the 
Scotchman,  "A  wife  can  be  made  much  of, 
if  caught  young." 

It  was  not  until  after  little  Grolier  and  lit 
tle  Richard  de  Bury  were  born  to  us  that 
Alice's  regard  for  my  pretty  library  seemed 
to  abate.  I  then  began  to  realize  the  truth 
of  what  my  bachelor  friend  Kinzie  had  often 
declared, —  namely,  that  the  chief  objection 
to  children  was  thatthey  weaned  the  collector 
from  his  love  of  books.  Grolier  was  a  mis 
chievous  boy,  and  I  had  hard  work  trying  to 
convince  his  mother  that  he  should  by  no 
means  be  allowed  to  have  his  sweet  but 
destructive  will  with  my  Bewicks  and  Bed- 
78 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

fords.  Thumb  and  finger  marks  look  well 
enough  in  certain  places,  but  I  protested 
that  they  did  not  enhance  the  quaint  beauty 
of  an  old  wood-cut,  a  delicate  binding,  or  a 
wide  margin.  And  Richard  de  Bury  —  a 
lovely  little  i6mo  of  a  child  —  was  almost  as 
destructive  as  his  older  brother.  The  most 
painful  feature  of  it  all  to  me  then  was  that 
their  mother  actually  protected  the  toddling 
knaves  in  their  vandalism.  I  never  saw 
another  woman  change  so  as  Alice  did  after 
those  two  boys  came  to  us.  Why,  she  even 
suggested  to  me  one  day  that  when  we  did 
build  our  new  house  we  should  devote  the 
upper  story  thereof  not  to  library  but  to  nur 
sery  purposes! 

Things  gradually  got  to  the  pass  that  I 
began  to  be  afraid  to  bring  books  into  the 
house.  At  first  Alice  used  to  reproach  me 
indirectly  by  eying  the  new  book  jealously, 
and  hinting  in  a  subtle,  womanly  way  that 
Grolier  needed  new  shoes,  or  that  Richard 
was  sadly  in  need  of  a  new  cap.  Presently, 
encouraged  by  my  lamb-like  reticence,  Alice 
began  to  complain  gently  of  what  she  termed 
my  extravagance,  and  finally  she  fell  into 

79 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

the  pernicious  practice  of  berating  me  roundly 
for  neglecting  my  family  for  the  selfish  — 
yes,  the  cruel  —  gratification  of  a  foolish  fad, 
and  then  she  would  weep  and  gather  up  the 
two  boys  and  wonder  how  soon  we  should 
all  be  in  the  poorhouse. 

I  have  spoken  of  my  bachelor  friend,  Kin- 
zie;  there  was  a  philosopher  for  you,  and 
his  philosophy  was  all  the  sweeter  because 
it  had  never  been  embittered  by  marital  ex 
perience.  I  had  confidence  in  Kinzie,  and  I 
told  him  all  about  the  dilemma  I  was  in. 
He  pitied  me  and  condoled  with  me,  for  he 
was  a  sympathetic  man,  and  he  was,  too, 
as  consistent  a  bibliomaniac  as  I  ever  met 
with.  "Be  of  good  cheer,"  said  he,  "we 
shall  find  a  way  out  of  all  this  trouble." 
And  he  suggested  a  way.  I  seized  upon  it 
as  the  proverbial  drowning  man  is  supposed 
to  clutch  at  the  proverbial  straw. 

The  next  time  I  took  a  bundle  of  books 
home  I  marched  into  the  house  boldly  with 
them.  Alice  fetched  a  deep  sigh.  "Ah, 
been  buying  more  books,  have  you  ?  "  she 
asked  in  a  despairing  tone. 

"No,  indeed,"  I  answered  triumphantly; 
80 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"they  were  given  to  me, — a  present  from 
Judge  Trask.  I  'm  in  great  luck,  ain't  I  ?  " 

Alice  was  almost  as  pleased  as  I  was. 
The  interest  with  which  she  inspected  the 
lovely  volumes  was  not  feigned.  "But 
who  is  Judge  Trask  ? "  she  asked,  as  she 
read  the  autographic  lines  upon  a  flyleaf  in 
each  book.  I  explained  glibly  that  the  judge 
was  a  wealthy  and  cultured  citizen  who  felt 
somewhat  under  obligation  to  me  for  certain 
little  services  I  had  rendered  him  one  time 
and  another.  I  was  not  to  be  trapped  or 
cornered.  I  had  learned  my  sinful  lesson 
perfectly.  Alice  never  so  much  as  suspected 
me  of  evil. 

The  scheme  worked  so  well  that  I  pur 
sued  it  with  more  or  less  diligence.  I  should 
say  that  about  twice  a  week  on  an  average 
a  bundle  of  books  came  to  the  house  "with 
the  compliments  "  of  either  Judge  Trask  or 
Colonel  Flail  or  Mr.  Bisland.  You  can  un 
derstand  that  I  could  not  hope  to  play  the 
Trask  deception  exclusively  and  success 
fully.  I  invented  Colonel  Flail  and  Mr.  Bis 
land,  and  I  contrived  to  render  them  quite 
as  liberal  in  their  patronage  as  the  mythical 
81 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

Judge  Trask  himself.  Occasionally  a  dona 
tion  came  in,  by  way  of  variety,  from  Smea- 
ton  and  Holbrook  and  Caswell  and  other 
solitary  creations  of  my  mendacious  imag 
ination,  when  I  used  to  blind  poor  dear 
Alice  to  the  hideous  truth.  Touching  my 
self,  I  gave  it  out  that  I  had  abandoned  book- 
buying,  was  convinced  of  the  folly  of  the 
mania,  had  reformed,  and  was  repentant. 
Alice  loved  me  all  the  better  for  that,  and 
she  became  once  more  the  sweetest,  most 
amiable  little  woman  in  all  the  world.  She 
was  inexpressibly  happy  in  the  fond  de 
lusion  that  I  had  become  prudent  and 
thrifty,  and  was  putting  money  in  bank 
for  that  home  we  were  going  to  buy  — 
sometime. 

Meanwhile  the  names  of  Flail,  Trask,  and 
Bisland  became  household  words  with  us. 
Occasionally  Smeaton  and  Holbrook  and 
Caswell  were  mentioned  gratefully  as  some 
fair  volume  bearing  their  autograph  was  in 
spected  ;  but,  after  all,  Flail,  Trask,  and  Bis 
land  were  the  favorites,  for  it  was  from  them 
that  most  of  my  beloved  books  came.  Yes, 
Alice  gradually  grew  to  love  those  three 
82 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

myths;  she  loved  them  because  they  were 
good  to  me. 

Alice  had,  like  most  others  of  her  sex,  a 
strong  sense  of  duty.  She  determined  to  do 
something  for  my  noble  friends,  and  finally 
she  planned  a  lovely  little  dinner  whereat 
Judge  Trask  and  Colonel  Flail  and  Mr.  Bis- 
land  were  to  be  regaled  with  choicest  viands 
of  Alice's  choice  larder  and  with  the  sweetest 
speeches  of  Alice's  graceful  heart.  I  was 
authorized  only  to  convey  the  invitations  to 
this  delectable  banquet,  and  here  was  a 
pretty  plight  for  a  man  to  be  in,  surely 
enough!  But  my  bachelor  friend  Kinzie 
(ough,  the  Mephisto!)  helped  me  out.  I 
reported  back  to  Alice  that  Judge  Trask  was 
out  of  town,  that  Colonel  Flail  was  sick  abed 
with  grip,  and  that  Mr.  Bisland  was  alto 
gether  too  shy  a  man  to  think  of  venturing 
out  to  a  dinner  alone.  Alice  was  dreadfully 
disappointed.  Still  there  was  consolation  in 
feeling  that  she  had  done  her  duty  in  trying 
to  do  it. 

Well,  this  system  of  deception  and  perjury 
went  on  a  long  time,  Alice  never  suspecting 
any  evil,  but  perfectly  happy  in  my  supposed 
83 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

reform  and  economy,  and  in  the  gracious  lib 
erality  of  those  three  Maecenas-like  friends, 
Flail,  Trask,  and  Bisland,  who  kept  pouring 
in  rare  and  beauteous  old  tomes  upon  me. 
She  was  joyous,  too,  in  the  prospect  of  that 
new  house  which  we  would  soon  be  able  to 
build,  now  that  I  had  so  long  quit  the  old 
ruinous  mania  for  book-buying!  And  I  — 
wretch  that  I  was  —  I  humored  her  in  this 
conceit;  I  heaped  perjury  upon  perjury;  ly 
ing  and  deception  had  become  my  second 
nature.  Yet  I  loathed  myself  and  I  hated 
those  books;  they  reproached  me  every  time 
I  came  into  their  presence.  So  I  was  mis 
erable  and  helpless;  how  hard  it  is  to  turn 
about  when  one  once  gets  into  the  down 
ward  path !  The  shifts  I  was  put  to,  and  the 
desperate  devices  which  I  was  forced  to  em 
ploy, —  I  shudder  to  recall  them !  Life  became 
a  constant,  terrifying  lie. 

Thank  Heaven,  it  is  over  now,  and  my  face 
is  turned  the  right  way.  A  third  little  son 
was  born  to  us.  Alice  was,  oh!  so  very  ill. 
When  she  was  convalescing  she  said  to  me 
one  day :  "  Hiram,  I  have  been  thinking  it  all 
over,  and  I  've  made  up  my  mind  that  we  must 
84 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

name  the  baby  Trask  Flail  Bisland,  after  out 
three  good  friends." 

I  did  n't  make  any  answer,  went  out  into 
the  hall,  and  communed  awhile  with  my 
own  hideous,  tormented  self.  How  my  soul 
revolted  against  the  prospect  of  giving  to 
that  innocent  babe  a  name  that  would  serve 
simply  to  scourge  me  through  the  rest  of 
my  wicked  life!  No,  I  could  not  consent  to 
that.  I  would  be  a  coward  no  longer! 

I  went  back  into  Alice's  room,  and  sat 
upon  the  bed  beside  her,  and  took  one  of 
Alice's  dear  little  white  hands  in  mine,  and 
told  her  everything,  told  Alice  the  whole 
truth, —  all  about  my  wickedness  and  per 
juries  and  deceptions;  told  her  what  a  self 
ish,  cruel  monster  I  had  been;  dispelled  all 
the  sinful  delusion  about  Flail,  Trask,  and 
Bisland;  threw  myself,  penitent  and  hope 
less,  upon  my  deceived,  outraged  little  wife's 
mercy.  Was  it  a  mean  advantage  to  take  of 
a  sick  woman  ? 

I  fancied  she  would  reproach  me,  for  I 
knew  that  her  heart  was  set  upon  that  new 
house  she  had  talked  of  so  often ;  I  told  her 
that  the  savings  she  had  supposed  were  in 

85 


THE  HOLY   CROSS 

bank,  were  in  reality  represented  only  by 
and  in  those  stately  folios  and  sumptuous 
quartos  which  the  mythical  Flail,  Trask,  and 
Bisland  had  presumably  donated.  "But," 
I  added,  "I  shall  sell  them  now,  and  with 
the  money  I  shall  build  the  home  in  which 
we  may  be  happy  again, — a  lovely  home, 
sweetheart,  with  no  library  at  all,  but  all 
nursery  if  you  wish  it  so!  " 

"No,"  said  Alice,  when  I  had  ended  my 
blubbering  confession,  "we  shall  not  part 
with  the  books;  they  have  caused  you  more 
suffering  than  they  have  me,  and,  moreover, 
their  presence  will  have  a  beneficial  effect 
upon  you.  Furthermore,  I  myself  have  be- 
comeattachedtothem, — you  know  I  thought 
they  were  given  to  you,  and  so  I  have  learned 
to  care  for  them.  Poor  Judge  Trask  and  Colo 
nel  Flail  and  Mr.  Bisland, —  so  they  are  only 
myths?  Dear  Hiram,"  she  added  with  a 
sigh,  "I  can  forgive  you  for  everything  ex 
cept  for  taking  those  three  good  men  out  of 
our  lives!" 

After  all  this  I  have  indeed  reformed.  I 
have  actually  become  prudent,  and  I  have  a 
bank-account  that  is  constantly  increasing. 
86 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

I  do  not  hate  books;  I  simply  do  not  buy 
them.  And  I  eschew  that  old  sinner,  Kinzie, 
and  all  the  sinister  influences  he  represents. 
As  for  our  third  little  boy,  we  have  named 
him  Reform  Meigs,  after  Alice's  mother's 
grandfather,  who  built  the  first  saw-mill  in 
what  is  now  the  State  of  Ohio,  and  was 
killed  by  the  Indians  in  1796. 


* 

€f>e  Coucf)  in  tye 

V 


THE    TOUCH    IN  THE   HEART 


OLD  Abel  Dunklee  was  delighted,  and  so 
was  old  Abel's  wife,  when  little  Abel 
came.  For  this  coming  they  had  waited  many 
years.  God  had  prospered  them  elsewise; 
this  one  supreme  blessing  only  had  been 
withheld.  Yet  Abel  had  never  despaired. 
"I  shall  some  time  have  a  son,"  said  he. 
"  I  shall  call  him  Abel.  He  shall  be  rich ;  he 
shall  succeed  to  my  business;  my  house,  my 
factory,  my  lands,  my  fortune, — all  shall  be 
his ! "  Abel  Dunklee  felt  this  to  be  a  cer 
tainty,  and  with  this  prospect  constantly  in 
mind  he  slaved  and  pinched  and  bargained. 
So  when  at  last  the  little  one  did  come  it  was 
as  heir  to  a  considerable  property. 

The  joy  in  the  house  of  Dunklee  was  not 
shared  by  the  community  at  large.  Abel 
Dunklee  was  by  no  means  a  popular  man. 

9« 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

Folk  had  the  well-defined  opinion  that  he 
was  selfish,  miserly,  and  hard.  If  he  had 
not  been  actually  bad,  he  had  never  been 
what  the  world  calls  a  good  man.  His 
methods  had  been  of  the  grinding,  sordid 
order.  He  had  always  been  scrupulously 
honest  in  the  payment  of  his  debts,  and  in 
keeping  his  word;  but  his  sense  of  duty 
seemed  to  stop  there:  Abel's  idea  of  good 
ness  was  to  owe  no  man  any  money.  He 
never  gave  a  penny  to  charities,  and  he 
never  spent  any  time  sympathizing  with  the 
misfortunes  or  distresses  of  other  people.  He 
was  narrow,  close,  selfish,  and  hard,  so  his 
neighbors  and  the  community  at  large  said, 
and  I  shall  not  deny  that  the  verdict  was  a 
just  one. 

When  a  little  one  comes  into  this  world  of 
ours,  it  is  the  impulse  of  the  people  here  to 
bid  it  welcome,  and  to  make  its  lot  pleasant. 
When  little  Abel  was  born  no  such  enthu 
siasm  obtained  outside  the  austere  Dunklee 
household.  Popular  sentiment  found  vent  in 
an  expression  of  the  hope  that  the  son  and 
heir  would  grow  up  to  scatter  the  dollars 
which  old  man  Dunklee  had  accumulated  by 
92 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

years  of  relentless  avarice  and  unflagging 
toil.  But  Dr.  Hardy  —  he  who  had  officiated 
in  an  all-important  capacity  upon  that  mo 
mentous  occasion  in  the  Dunklee  household 
—  Dr.  Hardy  shook  his  head  wisely,  and 
perhaps  sadly,  as  if  he  were  saying  to  him 
self:  ' '  No,  the  child  will  never  do  either  what 
the  old  folk  or  what  the  other  folk  would 
have  him  do;  he  is  not  long  for  here." 

Had  you  questioned  him  closely,  Dr.  Hardy 
would  have  told  you  that  little  Abel  was  as 
frail  a  babe  as  ever  did  battle  for  life.  Dr. 
Hardy  would  surely  never  have  dared  say 
that  to  old  Dunklee;  for  in  his  rapture  in 
the  coming  of  that  little  boy  old  Dunklee 
would  have  smote  the  offender  who  pre 
sumed  even  to  intimate  that  the  babe  was 
not  the  most  vigorous  as  well  as  the  most 
beautiful  creature  upon  earth.  The  old  man 
was  simply  assotted  upon  the  child, — in  a 
selfish  way,  undoubtedly,  but  even  this  sel 
fish  love  of  that  puny  little  child  showed  that 
the  old  man  was  capable  of  somewhat  better 
than  his  past  life  had  been.  To  hear  him 
talk  you  might  have  fancied  that  Mrs.  Dunk 
lee  had  no  part  or  parcel  or  interest  in  their 

93 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

offspring.  It  was  always  "  my  little  boy," — 
yes,  old  Abel  Dunklee's  money  had  a  rival 
in  the  old  man's  heart  at  last,  and  that  rival 
was  a  helpless,  shrunken,  sickly  little  babe. 
Among  his  business  associates  Abel  Dunk- 
lee  was  familiarly  known  as  Old  Growly, 
for  the  reason  that  his  voice  was  harsh  and 
discordant,  and  sounded  for  all  the  world 
like  the  hoarse  growling  of  an  ill-natured 
bear.  Abel  was  not  a  particularly  irritable 
person,  but  his  slavish  devotion  to  money- 
getting,  his  indifference  to  the  amenities  of 
life,  his  entire  neglect  of  the  tender  practices 
of  humanity,  his  rough,  unkempt  personal 
ity,  and  his  deep,  hoarse  voice, — these  things 
combined  to  make  that  sobriquet  of  "Old 
Growly"  an  exceedingly  appropriate  one. 
And  presumably  Abel  never  thought  of  re 
senting  the  slur  implied  therein  and  there 
by;  he  was  too  shrewd  not  to  see  that, 
however  disrespectful  and  evil-intentioned 
the  phrase  might  be,  it  served  him  to  good 
purpose;  for  it  conduced  to  that  very  gen 
eral  awe,  not  to  say  terror,  which  kept  peo 
ple  from  bothering  him  with  their  charitable 
and  sentimental  schemes. 

94 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Yes,  I  think  we  can  accept  it  as  a  fact 
that  Abel  liked  that  sobriquet;  it  meant 
more  money  in  his  pocket,  and  fewer  de 
mands  upon  his  time  and  patience. 

But  Old  Growly  abroad  and  Old  Growly 
at  home  were  two  very  different  people. 
Only  the  voice  was  the  same.  The  homely, 
furrowed,  wizened  face  lighted  up,  and  the 
keen,  restless  eyes  lost  their  expression  of 
shrewdness,  and  the  thin,  bony  hands  that 
elsewhere  clutched  and  clutched  and  pinched 
and  pinched  for  possession  unlimbered 
themselves  in  the  presence  of  little  Abel, 
and  reached  out  their  long  fingers  yearn 
ingly  and  caressingly  toward  the  little  child. 
Then  the  hoarse  voice  would  growl  a  salu 
tation  that  was  full  of  tenderness,  for  it  came 
straight  from  the  old  man's  heart;  only,  had 
you  not  known  how  much  he  loved  the 
child,  you  might  have  thought  otherwise, 
for  the  old  man's  voice  was  always  hoarse 
and  discordant,  and  that  was  why  they 
called  him  Old  Growly.  But  what  proved 
his  love  for  that  puny  babe  was  the  fact  that 
every  afternoon,  when  he  came  home  from 
the  factory,  Old  Growly  brought  his  little 
95 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

boy  a  dime ;  and  once,  when  the  little  fellow 
had  a  fever  on  him  from  teething,  Old 
Growly  brought  him  a  dollar!  Next  day 
the  tooth  came  through  and  the  fever  left 
him,  but  you  could  not  make  the  old  man 
believe  but  what  it  was  the  dollar  that  did 
it  all.  That  was  natural,  perhaps;  for  his 
life  had  been  spent  in  grubbing  for  money, 
and  he  had  not  the  soul  to  see  that  the  best 
and  sweetest  things  in  human  life  are  not  to 
be  had  by  riches  alone. 

As  the  doctor  had  in  one  way  and  another 
intimated  would  be  the  case,  the  child  did 
not  wax  fat  and  vigorous.  Although  Old 
Growly  did  not  seem  to  see  the  truth,  little 
Abel  grew  older  only  to  become  what  the 
doctor  had  foretold, —  a  cripple.  A  weak 
ness  of  the  spine  was  developed,  a  malady 
that  dwarfed  the  child's  physical  growth, 
giving  to  his  wee  face  a  pinched,  starved 
look,  warping  his  emaciated  body,  and  en 
feebling  his  puny  limbs,  while  at  the  same 
time  it  quickened  the  intellectual  faculties  to 
the  degree  of  precocity.  And  so  two  and 
three  and  four  years  went  by,  little  Abel 
clinging  to  life  with  pathetic  heroism,  and 
96 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Old  Growly  loving  that  little  cripple  with 
all  the  violence  of  his  selfish  nature.  Never 
once  did  it  occur  to  the  father  that  his  child 
might  die,  that  death's  seal  was  already  set 
upon  the  misshapen  little  body;  on  the  con 
trary,  Old  Growly's  thoughts  were  con 
stantly  of  little  Abel's  famous  future,  of  the 
great  fortune  he  was  to  fall  heir  to,  of  the 
prosperous  business  career  he  was  to  pursue, 
of  the  influence  he  was  to  wield  in  the 
world, —  of  dollars,  dollars,  dollars,  millions 
of  them  which  little  Abel  was  some  time  to 
possess;  these  were  Old  Growly's  dreams, 
and  he  loved  to  dream  them ! 

Meanwhile  the  world  did  well  by  the  old 
man;  despising  him,  undoubtedly,  for  his 
avarice  and  selfishness,  but  constantly  pour 
ing  wealth,  and  more  wealth,  and  even  more 
wealth  into  his  coffers.  As  for  the  old  man, 
he  cared  not  for  what  the  world  thought  or 
said,  so  long  as  it  paid  tribute  to  him;  he 
wrought  on  as  of  old,  industriously,  shrewdly, 
hardly,  but  with  this  new  purpose:  to  make 
his  little  boy  happy  and  great  with  riches. 

Toys  and  picture-books  were  vanities  in 
which  Old  Growly  never  indulged;  to  have 

97 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

expended  a  farthing  for  chattels  of  that  char 
acter  would  have  seemed  to  Old  Growly  like 
sinful  extravagance.  The  few  playthings 
which  little  Abel  had  were  such  as  his 
mother  surreptitiously  bought;  the  old  man 
believed  that  a  child  should  be  imbued  with 
a  proper  regard  for  the  value  of  money  from 
the  very  start,  so  bis  presents  were  always 
cash  in  hand,  and  he  bought  a  large  tin  bank 
for  little  Abel,  and  taught  the  child  how  to 
put  the  copper  and  silver  pieces  into  it,  and 
he  labored  diligently  to  impress  upon  the 
child  of  how  great  benefit  that  same  money 
would  be  to  him  by  and  by.  Just  picture  to 
yourself,  if  you  can,  that  fond,  foolish  old 
man  seeking  to  teach  this  lesson  to  that  wan- 
eyed,  pinched-face  little  cripple!  But  little 
Abel  took  it  all  very  seriously,  and  was  so 
apt  a  pupil  that  Old  Growly  made  great  joy 
and  was  wont  to  rub  his  bony  hands  glee 
fully  and  say  to  himself,  "He  has  great 
genius, —  this  boy  of  mine, —  great  genius 
for  finance!" 

But  on  a  day,  coming  from  his  factory, 
Old  Growly  was  stricken  with  horror  to  find 
that  during  his  absence  from  home  a  great 
98 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

change  had  come  upon  his  child.  The  doc 
tor  said  it  was  simply  the  progress  of  the 
disease ;  that  it  was  a  marvel  that  little  Abel 
had  already  held  out  so  long;  that  from  the 
moment  of  his  birth  the  seal  of  death  had 
been  set  upon  him  in  that  cruel  malady  which 
had  drawn  his  face  and  warped  his  body  and 
limbs.  Then  all  at  once  Old  Growly's  eyes 
seemed  to  be  opened  to  the  truth,  and  like 
a  lightning  flash  it  came  to  him  that  perhaps 
his  pleasant  dreams  which  he  had  dreamed 
of  his  child's  future  could  never  be  realized. 
It  was  a  bitter  awakening,  yet  amid  it  all  the 
old  man  was  full  of  hope,  determination,  and 
battle.  He  had  little  faith  in  drugs  and 
nursing  and  professional  skill;  he  remem 
bered  that  upon  previous  occasions  cures 
had  been  wrought  by  means  of  money ;  teeth 
had  been  brought  through,  the  pangs  of  colic 
beguiled,  and  numerous  other  ailments  to 
which  infancy  is  heir  had  by  the  same  spe 
cific  been  baffled.  So  now  Old  Growly  set 
about  wooing  his  little  boy  from  the  embrace 
of  death, —  sought  to  coax  him  back  to 
health  with  money,  and  the  dimes  became 
dollars,  and  the  tin  bank  was  like  to  burst 
99 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

of  fulness.  But  little  Abel  drooped  and 
drooped,  and  he  lost  all  interest  in  other 
things,  and  he  was  content  to  lie,  drooping- 
eyed  and  listless,  in  his  mother's  arms  all 
day.  At  last  the  little  flame  went  out  with 
hardly  so  much  as  a  flutter,  and  the  hope  of 
the  house  of  Dunklee  was  dissipated  forever. 
But  even  in  those  last  moments  of  the  little 
cripple's  suffering  the  father  struggled  to 
call  back  the  old  look  into  the  fading  eyes, 
and  the  old  smile  into  the  dear,  white  face. 
He  brought  treasure  from  his  vaults  and 
held  it  up  before  those  fading  eyes,  and 
promised  it  all,  all,  all  —  everything  he  pos 
sessed,  gold,  houses,  lands  —  all  he  had  he 
would  give  to  that  little  child  if  that  little 
child  would  only  live.  But  the  fading  eyes 
saw  other  things,  and  the  ears  that  were 
deaf  to  the  old  man's  lamentations  heard 
voices  that  soothed  the  anguish  of  that  last 
solemn  hour.  And  so  little  Abel  knew  the 
Mystery. 

Then  the  old  man  crept  away  from  that 
vestige  of  his  love,  and  stood  alone  in  the 
night,  and  lifted  up  his  face,  and  beat  his 
bosom,  and  moaned  at  the  stars,  asking  over 

100 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

and  over  again  why  he  had  been  so  bereaved. 
And  while  he  agonized  in  this  wise  and 
cried  there  came  to  him  a  voice, — a  voice 
so  small  that  none  else  could  hear,  a  voice 
seemingly  from  God;  for  from  infinite 
space  beyond  those  stars  it  sped  its  instan 
taneous  way  to  the  old  man's  soul  and 
lodged  there. 

"Abel,  I  have  touched  thy  heart!  " 
And  so,  having  come  into  the  darkness  of 
night,  old  Dunklee  went  back  into  the  light 
of  day  and  found  life  beautiful;  for  the  touch 
was  in  his  heart. 

After  that,  Old  Growly's  way  of  dealing 
with  the  world  changed.  He  had  always 
been  an  honest  man,  honest  as  the  world 
goes.  But  now  he  was  somewhat  better  than 
honest;  he  was  kind,  considerate,  merciful. 
People  saw  and  felt  the  change,  and  they 
knew  why  it  was  so.  But  the  pathetic  part 
of  it  all  was  that  Old  Growly  would  never 
admit  —  no,  not  even  to  himself — that  he 
was  the  least  changed  from  his  old  grinding, 
hard  self.  The  good  deeds  he  did  were  not 
his  own ;  they  were  his  little  boy's, —  at  least 
so  he  said.  And  it  was  his  whim  when  doing 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

some  kind  and  tender  thing  to  lay  it  to  little 
Abel,  of  whom  he  always  spoke  as  if  he 
were  still  living.  His  workmen,  his  neigh 
bors,  his  townsmen, — all  alike  felt  the  gra- 
ciousness  of  the  wondrous  change,  and  many, 
ah !  many  a  lowly  sufferer  blessed  that  broken 
old  man  for  succor  in  little  Abel's  name. 
And  the  old  man  was  indeed  much  broken: 
not  that  he  had  parted  with  his  shrewdness 
and  acumen,  for,  as  of  old,  his  every  venture 
prospered;  but  in  this  particular  his  mind 
seemed  weakened;  that,  as  I  have  said,  he 
fancied  his  child  lived,  that  he  was  given  to 
low  muttering  and  incoherent  mumblings, 
of  which  the  burden  seemed  to  be  that  child 
of  his,  and  that  his  greatest  pleasure  appeared 
now  to  be  watching  other  little  ones  at  their 
play.  In  fact,  so  changed  was  he  from  the 
Old  Growly  of  former  years,  that,  whereas 
he  had  then  been  wholly  indifferent  to  the 
presence  of  those  little  ones  upon  earth,  he 
now  sought  their  company,  and  delighted  to 
view  their  innocent  and  mirthful  play.  And 
so,  presently,  the  children,  from  regarding 
him  at  first  with  distrust,  came  to  confide  in 
and  love  him,  and  in  due  time  the  old  man 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

was  known  far  and  wide  as  Old  Grampa 
Growly,  and  he  was  pleased  thereat.  It  was 
his  wont  to  go  every  fair  day,  of  an  after 
noon,  into  a  park  hard  by  his  dwelling,  and 
mingle  with  the  crowd  of  little  folk  there ; 
and  when  they  were  weary  of  their  sports 
they  used  to  gather  about  him, —  some  even 
clambering  upon  his  knees, — and  hear  him 
tell  his  story,  for  he  had  only  one  story  to  tell, 
and  that  was  the  story  that  lay  next  his  heart, 
—  the  story  ever  and  forever  beginning  with, 
"  Once  ther'  wuz  a  littl'  boy."  A  very  ten 
der  little  story  it  was,  too,  told  very  much 
more  sweetly  than  I  could  ever  tell  it;  for  it 
was  of  Old  Grampa  Growly's  own  little  boy, 
and  it  came  from  that  heart  in  which  the 
touch  —  the  touch  of  God  Himself —  lay  like 
a  priceless  pearl. 

So  you  must  know  that  the  last  years  of 
the  old  man's  life  made  full  atonement  for 
those  that  had  gone  before.  People  forgot 
that  the  old  man  had  ever  been  other  than 
he  was  now,  and  of  course  the  children  never 
knew  otherwise.  But  as  for  himself,  Old 
Grampa  Growly  grew  tenderer  and  tenderer, 
and  his  goodness  became  a  household  word, 
103 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

and  he  was  beloved  of  all.  And  to  the  very 
last  he  loved  the  little  ones,  and  shared  their 
pleasures,  and  sympathized  with  them  in  their 
griefs,  but  always  repeating  that  same  old 
story,  beginning  with  "Once  ther'  wuz  a 
littl'  boy." 

The  curious  part  of  it  was  this:  that  while 
he  implied  by  his  confidences  to  the  children 
that  his  own  little  boy  was  dead,  he  never 
made  that  admission  to  others.  On  the  con 
trary,  it  was  his  wont,  as  I  have  said,  to 
speak  of  little  Abel  as  if  that  child  still  lived, 
and,  humoring  him  in  this  conceit,  it  was 
the  custom  of  the  older  ones  to  speak  al 
ways  of  that  child  as  if  he  lived  and  were 
known  and  beloved  of  all.  In  this  custom 
the  old  man  had  great  content  and  solace. 
For  it  was  his  wish  that  all  he  gave  to  and 
did  for  charity's  sake  should  be  known  to 
come,  not  from  him,  but  from  Abel,  his  son, 
and  this  was  his  express  stipulation  at  all 
such  times.  I  know  whereof  I  speak,  for  I 
was  one  of  those  to  whom  the  old  man  came 
upon  a  time  and  said:  "My  little  boy  — 
Abel,  you  know  —  will  give  me  no  peace  till 
1  do  what  he  requires.  He  has  this  sum  of 
104 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

money  which  he  has  saved  in  his  bank,  count 
it  yourselves,  it  is  $50,000,  and  he  bids  me 
give  it  to  the  townsfolk  for  a  hospital,  one  for 
little  lame  boys  and  girls.  And  I  have  prom 
ised  him  —  my  little  boy,  Abel,  you  know  — 
that  I  will  give  $50,000  more.  You  shall 
have  it  when  that  hospital  is  built."  Surely 
enough,  in  eighteen  months'  time  the  old  man 
handed  us  the  rest  of  the  money,  and  when 
we  told  him  that  the  place  was  to  be  called 
the  Abel  Dunklee  hospital  he  was  sorely  dis 
tressed,  and  shook  his  head,  and  said:  "No, 
no, —  not  my  name!  Call  it  the  Little  Abel 
hospital,  for  little  Abel  —  my  boy,  you  know 
—  has  done  it  all." 

The  old  man  lived  many  years, —  lived  to 
hear  tender  voices  bless  him,  and  to  see  pale 
faces  brighten  at  the  sound  of  his  footfall. 
Yes,  for  many  years  the  quaint,  shuffling 
figure  moved  about  our  streets,  and  his  hoarse 
but  kindly  voice  —  oh,  very  kindly  now  !  — 
was  heard  repeating  to  the  children  that 
pathetic  old  story  of  "Once  ther'  wuz  a  littl' 
boy."  And  where  the  dear  old  feet  trod 
the  grass  grew  greenest,  and  the  sunbeams 
nestled.  But  at  last  there  came  a  sum- 
105 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

mons  for  the  old  man, —  a  summons  from 
away  off  yonder, —  and  the  old  man  heard  it 
and  went  thither. 

The  doctor  —  himself  hoary  and  stooping 
now — told  me  that  toward  the  last  Old 
Grampa  Growly  sunk  into  a  sort  of  sleep,  or 
stupor,  from  which  they  could  not  rouse  him. 
For  many  hours  he  lay  like  one  dead,  but  his 
thin,  creased  face  was  very  peaceful,  and 
there  was  no  pain.  Children  tiptoed  in 
with  flowers,  and  some  cried  bitterly, 
while  others  —  those  who  were  younger 
—  whispered  to  one  another:  "Hush,  let 
us  make  no  noise;  Old  Grampa  Growly  is 
sleeping." 

At  last  the  old  man  roused  up.  He  had 
lain  like  one  dead  for  many  hours,  but  now 
at  last  he  seemed  to  wake  of  a  sudden,  and, 
seeing  children  about  him,  perhaps  he  fan 
cied  himself  in  that  pleasant  park,  under  the 
trees,  where  so  very  often  he  had  told  his  one 
pathetic  story  to  those  little  ones.  Leastwise 
he  made  a  feeble  motion  as  if  he  would  have 
them  gather  nearer,  and,  seeming  to  know 
his  wish,  the  children  came  closer  to  him. 
Those  who  were  nearest  heard  him  say  with 
106 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

the  ineffable  tenderness  of  old,  "Oncether* 
wuz  a  littl'  boy  —  " 

And  with  those  last  sweet  words  upon  his 
lips,  and  with  the  touch  in  his  heart,  the  old 
man  went  down  into  the  Valley. 


107 


Daniel  an&  tft  c  Debii 


DANIEL  AND  THE  DEVIL 


DANIEL  was  a  very  wretched  man.  As 
he  sat  with  his  head  bowed  upon  his 
desk  that  evening  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
his  life  had  been  a  failure.  "  I  have  labored 
long  and  diligently,"  said  he  to  himself, 
"and  although  I  am  known  throughout  the 
city  as  an  industrious  and  shrewd  business 
man,  I  am  still  a  poor  man,  and  shall  prob 
ably  continue  so  to  the  end  of  my  days  un 
less —  unless  —  " 

Here  Daniel  stopped  and  shivered.  For 
a  week  or  more  he  had  been  brooding  over 
his  unhappy  lot.  There  seemed  to  be  but 
one  way  out  of  his  trouble,  yet  his  soul  re 
volted  from  taking  that  step.  That  was  why 
he  stopped  and  shivered. 

"  But,"  he  argued,  "I  must  do  something! 
My  nine  children  are  growing  up  into  big 
in 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

boys  and  girls.  They  must  have  those  ad 
vantages  which  my  limited  means  will  not 
admit  of!  All  my  life  so  far  has  been  pure, 
circumspect,  and  rigid;  poverty  has  at  last 
broken  my  spirit.  I  give  up  the  fight, —  I 
am  ready  to  sell  my  soul  to  the  Devil! " 

"The  determination  is  a  wise  one,"  said 
a  voice  at  Daniel's  elbow.  Daniel  looked  up 
and  beheld  a  grim-visaged  stranger  in  the 
chair  beside  him.  The  stranger  was  arrayed 
all  in  black,  and  he  exhaled  a  distinct  odor  of 
sulphur. 

"Am  I  to  understand,"  asked  the  stranger, 
"that  you  are  prepared  to  enter  into  a  league 
with  the  Devil  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Daniel,  firmly;  and  he  set  his 
teeth  together  after  the  fashion  of  a  man  who 
is  not  to  be  moved  from  his  purpose. 

"Then  I  am  ready  to  treat  with  you,"  said 
the  stranger. 

"Are  you  the  Devil  ?  "  asked  Daniel,  eying 
the  stranger  critically. 

"No,  but  I  am  authorized  to  enter  into 
contracts  for  him,"  explained  the  stranger. 
"My  name  is  Beelzebub,  and  I  am  my  mas 
ter's  most  trusted  agent." 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

"Sir,"  said  Daniel,  "you  must  pardon  me 
(for  I  am  loath  to  wound  your  feelings),  but 
one  of  the  rules  governing  my  career  as  a 
business  man  has  been  to  deal  directly  with 
principals,  and  never  to  trust  to  the  offices  of 
middle-men.  The  affair  now  in  hand  is  one 
concerning  the  Devil  and  myself,  and  be 
tween  us  two  and  by  us  two  only  can  the 
preliminaries  be  adjusted." 

"As  it  so  happens,"  explained  Beelzebub, 
"this  is  Friday, —  commonly  called  hang 
man's  day, —  and  that  is  as  busy  a  time  in 
our  particular  locality  as  a  Monday  is  in  a 
laundry,  or  as  the  first  of  every  month  is  at 
a  book-keeper's  desk.  You  can  understand, 
perhaps,  that  this  is  the  Devil's  busy  day; 
therefore  be  content  to  make  this  deal  with 
me,  and  you  will  find  that  my  master  will 
cheerfully  accept  any  contract  I  may  enter 
into  as  his  agent  and  in  his  behalf." 

But  no, —  Daniel  would  not  agree  to  this; 
with  the  Devil  himself,  and  only  the  Devil 
himself,  would  he  treat.  So  he  bade  Beel 
zebub  go  to  the  Devil  and  make  known  his 
wishes.  Beelzebub  departed,  much  cha 
grined.  Presently  back  came  the  Devil,  and 

"3 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

surely  it  was  the  Devil  this  time, — there  could 
be  no  mistake  about  it;  for  he  wore  a  scarlet 
cloak,  and  had  cloven  feet,  and  carried  about 
with  him  as  many  suffocating  smells  as  there 
are  kinds  of  brimstone,  sulphur,  and  assa- 
foetida. 

The  two  talked  over  all  Daniel's  miseries; 
the  Devil  sympathized  with  Daniel,  and  ever 
and  anon  a  malodorous,  gummy  tear  would 
trickle  down  the  Devil's  sinister  nose  and 
drop  off  on  the  carpet. 

"What  you  want  is  money,"  said  the 
Devil.  "That  will  give  you  the  comfort  and 
the  contentment  you  crave." 

' '  Yes, "  said  Daniel ;  "  it  will  give  me  every 
opportunity  to  do  good." 

" To  do  good ! "  repeated  the  Devil.  "To 
do  good,  indeed!  Yes,  it  's  many  a  good 
time  we  shall  have  together,  friend  Daniel! 
Ha,  ha,  ha!"  And  the  Devil  laughed  up 
roariously.  Nothing  seemed  more  humor 
ous  than  the  prospect  of  "  doing  good  "  with 
the  Devil's  money!  But  Daniel  failed  to  see 
what  the  Devil  was  so  jolly  about.  Daniel 
was  not  a  humorist;  he  was,  as  we  have 
indicated,  a  plain  business  man. 
114 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

It  was  finally  agreed  that  Daniel  should  sell 
his  soul  to  the  Devil  upon  condition  that  for 
the  space  of  twenty-four  years  the  Devil 
should  serve  Daniel  faithfully,  should  pro 
vide  him  with  riches,  and  should  do  what 
soever  he  was  commanded  to  do;  then,  at 
the  end  of  the  twenty-fourth  year,  Daniel's 
soul  was  to  pass  into  the  possession  of  the 
Devil,  and  was  to  remain  there  forever,  with 
out  recourse  or  benefit  of  clergy.  Surely  a 
more  horrible  contract  was  never  entered 
into! 

"You  will  have  to  sign  your  name  to 
this  contract,"  said  the  Devil,  producing  a 
sheet  of  asbestos  paper  upon  which  all  the 
terms  of  the  diabolical  treaty  were  set  forth 
exactly. 

"Certainly,"  replied  Daniel.  "I  have 
been  a  business  man  long  enough  to  know 
the  propriety  and  necessity  of  written  con 
tracts.  And  as  for  you,  you  must  of  course 
give  a  bond  for  the  faithful  execution  of  your 
part  of  this  business." 

"That  is  something  I  have  never  done  be 
fore,"  suggested  the  Devil. 

"I  shall  insist  upon  it,"  said  Daniel,  firmly. 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

"This  is  no  affair  of  sentiment;  it  is  strictly 
and  coldly  business:  you  are  to  do  certain 
service,  and  are  to  receive  certain  rewards 
therefor  —  " 

"Yes,  your  soul!"  cried  the  Devil,  glee 
fully  rubbing  his  callous  hands  together. 
"  Your  soul  in  twenty-four  years! " 

"Yes,"  said  Daniel.  "Now,  no  contract 
is  good  unless  there  is  a  quid  pro  quo." 

"That 's  so,"  said  the  Devil,  "so  let 's  get 
a  lawyer  to  draw  up  the  paper  for  me  to 
sign." 

"Why  a  lawyer?"  queried  Daniel.  "A 
contract  is  a  simple  instrument;  I,  as  a  busi 
ness  man,  can  frame  one  sufficiently  bind 
ing." 

"But  I  prefer  to  have  a  lawyer  do  it," 
urged  the  Devil. 

And  /  prefer  to  do  it  myself,"  said  Daniel. 

When  a  business  man  once  gets  his  mind 
set,  not  even  an  Archimedean  lever  could  stir 
it.  So  Daniel  drew  up  the  bond  for  the  Devil 
to  sign,  and  this  bond  specified  that  in  case 
the  Devil  failed  at  any  time  during  the  next 
twenty-four  years  to  do  whatso  Daniel  com 
manded  him,  then  should  the  bond  which  the 
116 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Devil  held  against  Daniel  become  null  and 
void,  and  upon  that  same  day  should  a 
thousand  and  one  souls  be  released  forever 
from  the  Devil's  dominion.  The  Devil  winced ; 
he  hated  to  sign  this  agreement,  but  he  had 
to.  An  awful  clap  of  thunder  ratified  the 
abominable  treaty,  and  every  black  cat  within 
a  radius  of  a  hundred  leagues  straightway 
fell  to  frothing  and  to  yowling  grotesquely. 

Presently  Daniel  began  to  prosper;  the 
Devil  was  a  faithful  slave,  and  he  served 
Daniel  so  artfully  that  no  person  on  earth 
suspected  that  Daniel  had  leagued  with  the 
evil  one.  Daniel  had  the  finest  house  in  the 
city,  his  wife  dressed  magnificently,  and  his 
children  enjoyed  every  luxury  wealth  could 
provide.  Still,  Daniel  was  content  to  be 
known  as  a  business  man;  he  deported  him 
self  modestly  and  kindly;  he  pursued  with 
all  his  old-time  diligence  the  trade  which  in 
earlier  days  he  had  found  so  unproductive  of 
riches.  His  indifference  to  the  pleasures 
which  money  put  within  his  reach  was  pass 
ing  strange,  and  it  caused  the  Devil  vast  un 
easiness. 

"Daniel,  "said  the  Devil,  one  day,  "you  're 
117 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

not  getting  out  of  this  thing  all  the  fun  there 
is  in  it.  You  go  poking  along  in  the  same 
old  rut  with  never  a  suspicion  that  you  have 
it  in  your  power  to  enjoy  every  pleasure  of 
human  life.  Why  don't  you  break  away  from 
the  old  restraints  ?  Why  don't  you  avail  your 
self  of  the  advantages  at  your  command?" 

"I  know  what  you  're  driving  at,"  said 
Daniel,  shrewdly,  "Politics!" 

"No,  not  at  all,"  remonstrated  the  Devil. 
"  What  I  mean  is  fun, —  gayety.  Why  not 
have  a  good  time,  Daniel  ?  " 

"But  I  am  having  a  good  time,"  said 
Daniel.  "My  business  is  going  along  all 
right,  I  am  rich.  I  've  got  a  lovely  home; 
my  wife  is  happy ;  my  children  are  healthy 
and  contented;  I  am  respected, — what  more 
could  I  ask  ?  What  better  time  could  I  de 
mand?" 

"You  don't  understand  me,"  explained 
the  Devil.  "What  I  mean  by  a  good  time 
is  that  which  makes  the  heart  merry  and 
keeps  the  soul  youthful  and  buoyant,  —  wine, 
Daniel!  Wine  and  the  theatre  and  pretty 
girls  and  fast  horses  and  all  that  sort  of  happy, 
joyful  life!" 

118 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"Tut,  tut,  tut!"  cried  Daniel;  "no  more 
of  that,  sir !  I  sowed  my  wild  oats  in  college. 
What  right  have  I  to  think  of  such  silly  fol 
lies, —  I,  at  forty  years  of  age,  and  a  business 
man  too  ?  " 

So  not  even  the  Devil  himself  could  per 
suade  Daniel  into  a  life  of  dissipation.  All 
you  who  have  made  a  study  of  the  business 
man  will  agree  that  of  all  human  beings  he 
is  the  hardest  to  swerve  from  conservative 
methods.  The  Devil  groaned  and  began  to 
wonder  why  he  had  ever  tied  up  to  a  man 
like  Daniel, — a  business  man. 

Pretty  soon  Daniel  developed  an  ambition. 
He  wanted  reputation,  and  he  told  the  Devil 
so.  The  Devil's  eyes  sparkled.  "At  last," 
murmured  the  Devil,  with  a  sigh  of  relief, — 
"at  last." 

"Yes,"  said  Daniel,  "  I  want  to  be  known 
far  and  wide.  You  must  build  a  church  for 
me." 

"What!"  shrieked  the  Devil.  And  the 
Devil's  tail  stiffened  up  like  a  sore  thumb. 

"Yes,"  said  Daniel,  calmly;  "you  must 
build  a  church  for  me,  and  it  must  be  the 
largest  and  the  handsomest  church  in  the 
119 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

city.  The  sittings  shall  be  free,  and  you 
shall  provide  the  funds  for  its  support  for 
ever." 

The  Devil  frothed  at  his  mouth,  and  blue 
fire  issued  from  his  ears  and  nostrils.  He 
was  the  maddest  devil  ever  seen  on  earth. 

"I  won't  do  it!  "  roared  the  Devil.  "Do 
you  suppose  I'm  going  to  spend  my  time 
building  churches  and  stultifying  myself  just 
for  the  sake  of  gratifying  your  idle  whims  ? 
I  won't  do  it, — never!  " 

"Then  the  bond  I  gave  is  null  and  void," 
said  Daniel. 

"Take  your  old  bond,"  said  the  Devil, 
petulantly. 

"But  the  bond  you  gave  is  operative," 
continued  Daniel.  ' '  So  release  the  thousand 
and  one  souls  you  owe  me  when  you  refuse 
to  obey  me." 

"Oh,  Daniel!"  whimpered  the  Devil, 
"how  can  you  treat  me  so?  Have  n't  I 
always  been  good  to  you  ?  Have  n't  I  given 
you  riches  and  prosperity  ?  Does  no  senti 
ment  of  friendship — " 

"Hush,"  said  Daniel,  interrupting  him. 
"I  have  already  told  you  a  thousand  times 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

that  our  relations  were  simply  those  of  one 
business  man  with  another.  It  now  be 
hooves  you  to  fulfil  your  part  of  our  com 
pact;  eventually  I  shall  fulfil  mine.  Come, 
now,  to  business!  Will  you  or  will  you 
not  keep  your  word  and  save  your  bond  ?" 

The  Devil  was  sorely  put  to  his  trumps. 
But  when  it  came  to  releasing  a  thousand 
and  one  souls  from  hell, — ah,  that  staggered 
him!  He  had  to  build  the  church,  and  a 
noble  one  it  was  too.  Then  he  endowed 
the  church,  and  finally  he  built  a  parsonage; 
altogether  it  was  a  stupendous  work,  and 
Daniel  got  all  the  credit  for  it.  The  preacher 
whom  Daniel  installed  in  this  magnificent 
temple  was  severely  orthodox,  and  one  of 
the  first  things  he  did  was  to  preach  a  series 
of  sermons  upon  the  personality  of  the  Devil, 
wherein  he  inveighed  most  bitterly  against 
that  person  and  his  work. 

By  and  by  Daniel  made  the  Devil  endow 
and  build  a  number  of  hospitals,  charity 
schools,  free  baths,  libraries,  and  other  in 
stitutions  of  similar  character.  Then  he 
made  him  secure  the  election  of  honest  men 
to  office  and  of  upright  judges  to  the  bench. 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

It  almost  broke  the  Devil's  heart  to  do  it, 
but  the  Devil  was  prepared  to  do  almost 
anything  else  than  forfeit  his  bond  and  give 
up  those  one  thousand  and  one  souls.  By 
this  time  Daniel  came  to  be  known  far  and 
wide  for  his  philanthropy  and  his  piety. 
This  gratified  him  of  course;  but  most  of  all 
he  gloried  in  the  circumstance  that  he  was 
a  business  man. 

"Have  you  anything  for  me  to  do  to 
day?"  asked  the  Devil,  one  morning.  He 
had  grown  to  be  a  very  meek  and  courteous 
devil;  steady  employment  in  righteous 
causes  had  chastened  him  to  a  degree  and 
purged  away  somewhat  of  the  violence  of 
his  nature.  On  this  particular  morning  he 
looked  haggard  and  ill, — yes,  and  he  looked, 
too,  as  blue  as  a  whetstone. 

"I  am  not  feeling  robust,"  explained  the 
Devil.  "To  tell  the  truth,  I  am  somewhat 
ill." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  it,  "said  Daniel;  "but 
as  I  am  not  conducting  a  sanitarium,  I  can 
do  nothing  further  than  express  my  regret 
that  you  are  ailing.  Of  course  our  business 
relations  do  not  contemplate  any  inter- 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

change  of  sympathies;  still  I  '11  go  easy  with 
you  to-day.  You  may  go  up  to  the  house 
and  look  after  the  children;  see  that  they 
don't  smoke  cigarettes,  or  quarrel,  or  tease 
the  cat,  or  do  anything  out  of  the  way." 

Now  that  was  fine  business  for  the  Devil  to 
be  in ;  but  how  could  the  Devil  help  himself? 
He  was  wholly  at  Daniel's  mercy.  He  went 
groaning  about  the  humiliating  task. 

The  crash  came  at  last.  It  was  when  the 
Devil  informed  Daniel  one  day  that  he  was  n't 
going  to  work  for  him  any  more. 

"You  have  ruined  my  business,"  said 
the  Devil,  wearily.  "A  committee  of  imps 
waited  upon  me  last  night  and  told  me  that 
unless  I  severed  my  connection  with  you  a 
permanent  suspension  of  my  interests  down 
yonder  would  be  necessitated.  While  I  have 
been  running  around  doing  your  insane  er 
rands  my  personal  business  has  gone  to  the 
dogs —  I  would  n't  beat  all  surprised  if  I  were 
to  have  to  get  a  new  plant  altogether.  Mean 
while  my  reputation  has  suffered;  I  am  no 
longer  respected,  and  the  number  of  my  re 
cruits  is  daily  becoming  smaller.  I  give  up, 
—  I  can  make  no  further  sacrifice." 
123 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

"Then  you  are  prepared  to  forfeit  your 
bond  ?  "  asked  Daniel. 

"Not  by  any  means,"  replied  the  Devil. 
"I  propose  to  throw  the  matter  into  the 
courts." 

' '  That  will  hardly  be  to  your  interest, "  said 
Daniel,  "since,  as  you  well  know,  we  have 
recently  elected  honest  men  to  the  bench, 
and,  as  I  recollect,  most  of  our  judges  are 
members  in  good  standing  of  the  church  we 
built  some  years  ago!  " 

The  Devil  howled  with  rage.  Then,  pres 
ently,  he  began  to  whimper. 

"  For  the  last  time,"  expostulated  Daniel, 
"let  me  remind  you  that  sentiment  does  not 
enter  into  this  affair  at  all.  We  are  simply 
two  business  parties  cooperating  in  a  busi 
ness  scheme.  Our  respective  duties  are  ex 
actly  defined  in  the  bonds  we  hold.  You 
keep  your  contract  and  I'll  keep  mine.  Let 
me  see,  I  still  have  a  margin  of  thirteen 
years." 

The  Devil  groaned  and  writhed. 

"They  call  m.e  a  dude,"  whimpered  the 
Devil. 

"Who  do?"  asked  Daniel. 
124 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"Beelzebub  and  the  rest,"  said  the  Devil. 
"I  have  been  trotting  around  doing  pious 
errands  so  long  that  I  've  lost  all  my  sulphur- 
and-brimstone  flavor,  and  now  I  smell  like 
spikenard  and  myrrh." 

"  Pooh!  "  said  Daniel. 

' '  Well,  I  do, "  insisted  the  Devil.  ' '  You've 
humiliated  me  so  that  I  hain't  got  any  more 
ambition.  Yes,  Daniel,  you've  worked  me 
shamefully  hard! " 

"  Well,"  said  Daniel,  "  I  have  a  very  dis 
tinct  suspicion  that  when,  thirteen  years 
hence,  I  fall  into  your  hands  I  shall  not  enjoy 
what  might  be  called  a  sedentary  life." 

The  Devil  plucked  up  at  this  suggestion. 
"  Indeed  you  shall  not,"  he  muttered.  "  I'll 
make  it  hot  for  you!  " 

"  But  come,  we  waste  time,"  said  Daniel. 
"  I  am  a  man  of  business,  and  I  cannot  fritter 
away  the  precious  moments  parleying  with 
you.  I  have  important  work  for  you.  To 
morrow  is  Sunday;  you  are  to  see  that  all 
the  saloons  are  kept  closed." 

"I  sha'n't, —  I  won't!"  yelled  the  Devil. 

"  But  you  must,"  said  Daniel,  firmly. 

"  Do  you  really  expect  me  to  do  that?  " 
125 


THE   HOLY  CROSS  AND  OTHER  TALES 

roared  the  Devil.  "Do  you  fancy  that  I  am 
so  arrant  a  fool  as  to  shut  off  the  very  feeders 
whereby  my  hungry  hell  is  supplied  ?  That 
would  be  suicidal! " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that,"  said 
Daniel;  "I  am  a  business  man,  and  by  this 
business  arrangement  of  ours  it  is  explicitly 
stipulated  —  " 

"  I  don't  care  what  the  stipulations  are! " 
shrieked  the  Devil.  "  I'm  through  with  you, 
and  may  I  be  consumed  by  my  own  fires  if 
ever  again  I  have  anything  to  do  with  a 
business  man!" 

The  upshot  of  it  all  was  that  the  Devil 
forfeited  his  bond,  and  by  this  act  Daniel 
was  released  from  every  obligation  unto  the 
Devil,  and  one  thousand  and  one  souls  were 
ransomed  from  the  torture  of  the  infernal 
fires. 


136 


METHUSELAH 


THE  discussion  now  going  on  between 
our  clergymen  and  certain  unbelievers 
touching  the  question  of  Cain  and  his  wife 
will  surely  result  beneficially,  for  it  will  set 
everybody  to  reading  his  Bible  more  dili 
gently.  Still,  the  biography  of  Cain  is  one 
that  we  could  never  become  particularly  in 
terested  in ;  in  short,  of  all  the  Old  Testament 
characters  none  other  interests  us  so  much 
as  does  Methuselah,  the  man  who  lived  969 
years.  Would  it  be  possible  to  find  in  all 
history  another  life  at  once  so  grand  and  so 
pathetic  ?  One  can  get  a  faint  idea  of  the  aw 
ful  magnitude  of  Methuselah's  career  by  paus 
ing  to  recollect  that  969  years  represent  9.69 
centuries,  96  decades,  11,628  months,  50,388 
weeks,  353,928  days,  8,494,272  hours,  521,- 
656,320  minutes,  and  36,299,879,200  sec 
onds! 

129 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

How  came  he  to  live  so  long  ?  Ah,  that 
is  easily  enough  explained.  He  loved  life 
and  the  world, — both  were  beautiful  to  him. 
And  one  day  he  spoke  his  wish  in  words. 
"Oh,  that  I  might  live  a  thousand  years!  " 
he  cried. 

Then  looking  up  straightway  he  beheld  an 
angel,  and  the  angel  said:  "Wouldst  thou 
live  a  thousand  years  ?  " 

And  Methuselah  answered  him,  saying: 
"As  the  Lord  is  my  God,  I  would  live  a 
thousand  years." 

"It  shall  be  even  so,"  said  the  angel;  and 
then  the  angel  departed  out  of  his  sight.  So 
Methuselah  lived  on  and  on,  as  the  angel  had 
promised. 

How  sweet  a  treasure  the  young  Methu 
selah  must  have  been  to  his  parents  and  to 
his  doting  ancestors ;  with  what  tender  solic 
itude  must  the  old  folks  have  watched  the 
child's  progress  from  the  innocence  of  his 
first  to  the  virility  of  his  later  centuries.  We 
can  picture  the  happy  reunions  of  the  old 
Adam  family  under  the  domestic  vines  and 
fig-trees  that  bloomed  near  the  Euphrates. 
When  Methuselah  was  a  mere  toddler  of 
130 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

nineteen  years,  Adam  was  still  living,  and 
so  was  his  estimable  wife;  the  possibility 
is  that  the  venerable  couple  gave  young 
Methuselah  a  birthday  party  at  which  (we 
can  easily  imagine)  there  were  present  these 
following,  to-wit:  Adam,  aged  687;  Seth, 
aged  557;  Enos,  aged  452;  Cainan,  aged 
362;  Mahalaleel,  aged  292 ;  Jared,  aged  227; 
Enoch,  aged  65,  and  his  infant  boy  Methu 
selah,  aged  19.  Here  were  represented 
eight  direct  generations,  and  there  were 
present,  of  course,  the  wives  and  daughters; 
so  that,  on  the  whole,  the  gathering  must 
have  been  as  numerous  as  it  was  otherwise 
remarkable.  Nowhere  in  any  of  the  vistas 
of  history,  of  romance,  or  of  mythology  were 
it  possible  to  find  a  spectacle  more  impos 
ing  than  that  of  the  child  Methuselah  sur 
rounded  by  his  father  Enoch,  his  grandfather 
Jared,  his  great-grandfather  Mahalaleel,  his 
great-great-grandfather  Cainan,  his  great- 
great-great-grandfather  Enos,  his  great- 
great-great-great-grandfather  Seth,  and  his 
great  -  great  -  great  -  great  -  great  -  grandfather 
Adam,  as  well  as  by  his  great-great-great- 
great-great-grandmother  Eve,  and  her  femi- 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

nine  posterity  for  (say)  four  centuries!  How 
pretty  and  how  kindly  dear  old  grandma  Eve 
must  have  looked  on  that  gala  occasion,  at 
tired,  as  she  must  have  been,  in  all  the  quaint 
simplicity  of  that  primeval  period;  and  how 
must  the  dear  old  soul  have  fretted  through 
fear  that  little  Methuselah  would  eat  too 
many  papaws,  or  drink  too  much  goat's 
milk.  It  is  a  marvel,  we  think,  that  in  spite 
of  the  indulgence  and  the  petting  in  which 
he  was  reared,  Methuselah  grew  to  be  a 
good,  kind  man. 

Profane  historians  agree  that  just  about 
the  time  he  reached  the  age  of  ninety-four 
Methuselah  became  deeply  enamoured  of  a 
comely  and  sprightly  damsel  named  Mizpah, 
—a  young  thing  scarce  turned  seventy-six. 
Up  to  this  period  of  adolescence  his  cautious 
father  Enoch  had  kept  Methuselah  out  of 
all  love  entanglements,  and  it  is  probable 
that  he  would  not  have  approved  of  this 
affair  with  Mizpah  had  not  Jared,  the  boy's 
grandfather,  counselled  Enoch  to  give  the 
boy  a  chance.  But  alas  and  alackaday  for 
the  instability  of  youthful  affection !  It  be 
fell  in  an  evil  time  that  there  came  over  from 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

the  land  of  Nod  a  frivolous  and  gorgeously 
apparelled  beau,  who,  with  finely  wrought 
phrases,  did  so  fascinate  the  giddy  Mizpah 
that  incontinently  she  gave  Methuselah  the 
mitten,  and  went  with  the  dashing  young 
stranger  of  102  as  his  bride. 

This  shocking  blow  so  grievously  affected 
Methuselah  that  for  some  time  (that  is  to 
say,  for  a  period  of  ninety-one  years)  he 
shunned  female  society.  But  having  recov 
ered  somewhat  from  the  bitterness  of  that 
great  disappointment  received  in  the  callow- 
ness  of  his  ninth  decade,  he  finally  met  and 
fell  in  love  with  Adah,  a  young  woman  of 
148,  and  her  he  married.  The  issue  of  this 
union  was  a  boy  whom  they  named  Lamech, 
and  this  child  from  the  very  hour  of  his 
birth  gave  his  father  vast  worriment,  which, 
considering  the  disparity  in  their  ages,  is 
indeed  most  shocking  of  contemplation. 
The  tableau  of  a  father  (aged  187)  vainly 
coddling  a  colicky  babe  certainly  does  not 
call  for  our  enthusiasm.  Yet  we  presume 
to  say  that  Methuselah  bore  his  trials  meekly, 
that  he  cherished  and  adored  the  baby,  and 
that  he  spent  weeks  and  months  playing 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

peek-a-boo  and  ride-a-cock-horse.  In  all 
our  consideration  of  Methuselah  we  must 
remember  that  the  mere  matter  of  time  was 
of  no  consequence  to  him. 

Lamech  grew  to  boyhood,  involving  his 
father  in  all  those  ridiculous  complications 
which  parents  nowadays  do  not  heed  so 
much,  but  which  must  have  been  of  vast 
annoyance  to  a  man  of  Methuselah's  ad 
vanced  age  and  proper  notions.  Whittling 
with  the  old  gentleman's  razor,  hooking  off 
from  school,  trampling  down  the  neighbors' 
rowen,  tracking  mud  into  the  front  parlor — 
these  were  some  of  Lamech's  idiosyncrasies, 
and  of  course  they  tormented  Methuselah, 
who  recalled  sadly  that  boys  were  no  longer 
what  they  used  to  be  when  he  was  a  boy 
some  centuries  previous.  But  when  he  got 
to  be  182  years  old  Lamech  had  sowed  all 
his  wild  oats,  and  it  was  then  he  married  a 
clever  young  girl  of  98,  who  bore  him  a  son 
whom  they  called  Noah.  Now  if  Methuselah 
had  been  worried  and  plagued  by  Lamech, 
he  was  more  than  compensated  therefor  by 
this  baby  grandson,  whom  he  found  to  be, 
aside  from  all  prejudices,  the  prettiest  and 

134 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

the  smartest  child  he  had  ever  seen.  Old 
father  Adam,  who  was  now  turned  of  his 
ninth  century,  tottered  over  to  see  the  baby, 
and  he,  too,  allowed  that  it  was  an  uncom 
monly  bright  child.  And  dear  old  grandma 
Eve  declared  that  there  was  an  expression 
about  the  upper  part  of  the  little  Noah's  face 
that  reminded  her  very  much  of  the  soft- 
eyed  boy  she  lost  800  years  ago.  And  dear 
old  grandma  Eve  used  to  rock  little  Noah 
and  sing  to  him,  and  cry  softly  to  herself  all 
the  while. 

Now,  in  good  time,  Noah  grew  to  lusty 
youth,  and  although  he  was,  on  the  whole, 
a  joy  to  his  grandsire  Methuselah,  he  devel 
oped  certain  traits  and  predilections  that  oc 
casioned  the  old  gentleman  much  uneasiness. 
At  the  tender  age  of  265  Noah  exhibited  a 
strange  passion  for  aquatics,  and  while  it 
was  common  for  other  boys  of  that  time  to 
divert  themselves  with  the  flocks  and  herds, 
with  slingshots  and  spears,  with  music  and 
dancing,  Noah  preferred  to  spend  his  hours 
floating  toy-ships  in  the  bayous  of  the  Eu 
phrates.  Every  day  he  took  his  little  shittim- 
wood  boats  down  to  the  water,  tied  strings 

135 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

to  them,  and  let  them  float  hither  and  thither 
on  the  crystal  bosom  of  the  tide.  Naturally 
enough  these  practices  worried  the  grand 
father  mightily. 

"May  not  the  crocodiles  compass  him 
round  about  ?  "  groaned  Methuselah.  "  May 
not  behemoth  prevail  against  him  ?  Or, 
verily,  it  may  befall  that  the  waves  shall  de 
vour  him.  Woe  is  me  and  lamentation  unto 
this  household  if  destruction  come  to  him 
through  the  folly  of  his  fathers!  " 

So  Methuselah's  age  began  to  be  full  of 
care  and  trouble,  and  many  a  time  he  felt 
weary  of  living,  and  sometimes — yes,  some 
times — he  wished  he  were  dead.  People  in 
those  times  were  not  afraid  to  die;  they  be 
lieved  in  the  second  and  better  life,  because 
God  spoke  with  them  and  told  them  it 
should  be. 

The  last  century  of  this  good  man's  so 
journ  upon  earth  was  particularly  pathetic. 
His  ancestors  were  all  dead;  he  alone  re 
mained  the  last  living  reminiscence  of  a  time 
that  but  for  him  would  have  been  forgotten. 
Deprived  of  the  wise  counsels  of  his  great- 
great  -  great-  great  -  great-grandfather  Adam 
136 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

and  of  the  gentle  admonitions  of  his  great- 
great-great-great-great-grandmother  Eve, 
Methuselah  felt  not  only  lonesome  but  even 
in  danger  of  wrong-doing,  so  precious  to  him 
had  been  the  teachings  of  these  worthy  pro 
genitors.  And  what  particularly  disturbed 
Methuselah  were  the  dreadful  changes  that 
had  taken  place  in  society  since  he  was  a 
boy.  Dress,  speech,  customs,  and  morals 
were  all  different  now  from  what  they  used 
to  be. 

When  Methuselah  was  a  boy, —  ah,  he  re 
membered  it  well, —  people  went  hither  and 
thither  clad  only  in  simple  fig-leaf  garb,  and 
they  were  content  therewith. 

When  Methuselah  was  a  boy,  people  spoke 
a  plain,  direct  language,  strong  in  its  truth, 
its  simplicity,  and  its  honest  vigor. 

When  Methuselah  was  a  boy,  manners 
were  open  and  unaffected,  and  morals  were 
pure  and  healthy. 

But  now  all  these  things  were  changed. 
An  evil  called  fashion  had  filled  the  minds  of 
men  and  women  with  vanity.  From  the  sin 
ful  land  of  Nod  and  from  other  pagan  coun 
tries  came  divers  tradesmen  with  purples  and 

'37 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

linens  and  fine  feathers,  whereby  a  wicked 
pride  was  engendered,  and  from  these  sinful 
countries,  too,  came  frivolous  manners  that 
supplanted  the  guileless  etiquette  of  the  past. 

Moreover,  traffic  and  intercourse  with  the 
subtle  heathen  had  corrupted  and  perverted 
the  speech  of  Adam's  time:  crafty  phrases 
and  false  rhetorics  had  crept  in,  and  the 
grand  old  Edenic  idioms  either  were  fast 
being  debased  or  had  become  wholly  obso 
lete.  Such  new-fangled  words  as  ' '  eftsoon, " 
"albeit,"  "wench,"  "soothly,"  "zounds," 
"whenas,"and  "sithence"  had  stolen  into 
common  usage,  making  more  direct  and 
simpler  speech  a  jest  and  a  byword. 

Likewise  had  prudence  given  way  to  ex 
travagance,  abstemiousness  to  intemperance, 
dignity  to  frivolity,  and  continence  to  lust; 
so  that  by  these  evils  was  Methuselah  griev 
ously  tormented,  and  it  repented  him  full 
sore  that  he  had  lived  to  see  such  exceeding 
wickedness  upon  earth.  But  in  the  midst  of 
all  these  follies  did  Methuselah  maintain  an 
upright  and  godly  life,  and  continually  did  he 
bless  God  for  that  he  had  held  him  in  the 
path  of  rectitude. 

138 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Now  when  Methuselah  was  in  the  964^1 
summer  of  his  sojourn  he  was  called  upon  to 
mourn  the  death  of  his  son  Lamech,  whom 
an  inscrutable  Providence  had  cut  off  in 
what  in  those  days  was  considered  the  flower 
of  a  man's  life, —  namely,  the  eighth  century 
thereof.  Lamech's  untimely  decease  was  a 
severe  blow  to  his  doting  father,  who,  forget 
ting  all  his  son's  boyish  indiscretions,  remem 
bered  now  only  Lamech's  good  and  lovable 
traits  and  deeds.  It  is  reasonable  to  suppose, 
however,  that  the  old  gentleman  was  some 
what  beguiled  from  his  grief  by  the  lively 
dispositions  and  playful  antics  of  Lamech's 
grandsons,  Noah's  sons,  and  his  own  great- 
grandsons, —  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japheth, — 
who  at  this  time  had  attained  to  the  frolic 
some  ages  of  ninety-five,  ninety-two,  and 
ninety-one,  respectively.  These  boys  inher 
ited  from  their  father  a  violent  penchant  for 
aquatics, and  scarcely  a  day  passed  that  they 
did  not  paddle  around  the  bayous  and 
sloughs  of  the  Euphrates  in  their  gopher- 
wood  canoes. 

"Gran'pa,"  Noah  used  to  say,  "the  con 
duct  of  those  boys  causes  me  constant  vexa- 

139 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

tfon.  I  have  no  time  to  follow  them  around, 
and  I  am  haunted  continually  by  the  fear 
that  they  will  be  drowned,  or  that  the  croco 
diles  will  get  them  if  they  don't  watch  out!  " 

But  Methuselah  would  smiling  answer: 
"  Possess  thy  soul  in  patience  and  thy 
bowels  in  peace;  for  verily  is  it  not  written 
'boys  will  be  boys!'  " 

Now  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japheth  were  very 
fond  of  their  great-grandpa,  and  to  their 
credit  be  it  said  that  next  to  paddling  over 
the  water  privileges  of  the  Euphrates  they 
liked  nothing  better  than  to  sit  in  the  old 
gentleman's  lap,  and  to  hear  him  talk  about 
old  times.  Marvellous  tales  he  told  them, 
too;  for  his  career  of  nine  and  a  half  cen 
turies  had  been  well  stocked  with  incident, 
as  one  would  naturally  suppose.  Howbeit, 
the  admiration  which  these  callow  youths 
had  for  Methuselah  was  not  shared  by  a 
large  majority  of  the  people  then  on  earth. 
On  the  contrary,  we  blush  to  admit  it,  Me 
thuselah  was  held  in  very  trifling  esteem  by 
his  frivolous  fellow-citizens,  who  habitually 
referred  to  him  as  an  "old  'wayback,"  "a 
barnacle,"  an  "old  fogy,"  a  "  mossback," 
140 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

or  a  "garrulous  dotard,"  and  with  singular 
irreverence  they  took  delight  in  twitting  him 
upon  his  senility  and  in  pestering  him  with 
divers  new-fangled  notions  altogether  dis 
tasteful,  not  to  say  shocking,  to  a  gentleman 
of  his  years. 

It  was  perhaps,  however,  at  the  old  set 
tlers'  picnics,  which  even  then  were  of  annual 
occurrence,  that  Methuselah  most  enjoyed 
himself;  for  on  these  occasions  he  was  given 
the  place  of  prominence  and  he  was  deferred 
to  in  everything,  since  he  antedated  all  the 
others  by  at  least  three  centuries.  The  his 
torians  and  the  antiquarians  of  the  time  found 
him  of  much  assistance  to  them  in  their  la 
bors,  since  he  was  always  ready  to  provide 
them  with  dates  touching  incidents  of  the 
remote  period  from  which  he  had  come 
down  unscathed.  He  remembered  vividly 
how,  when  he  was  186  years  of  age,  the 
Euphrates  had  frozen  over  to  a  depth  of 
seven  feet;  the  2O9th  winter  of  his  existence 
he  referred  to  as  "the  winter  of  the  deep 
snow;"  he  remembered  that  when  he  was 
a  boy  the  women  had  more  character  than 
the  women  of  these  later  years ;  he  had  a  vivid 
141 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

recollection  of  the  great  plague  that  pre 
vailed  in  the  city  of  Enoch  during  his  fourth 
century;  he  could  repeat,  word  for  word,  the 
address  of  welcome  his  great-great-great- 
great-great-grandfather  Adam  delivered  to 
an  excursion  party  that  came  over  from  the 
land  of  Nod  one  time  when  Methuselah  was 
a  mere  child  of  eighty-seven, — oh,  yes,  poor 
old  Methuselah  was  full  of  reminiscence,  and 
having  crowded  an  active  career  into  the 
brief  period  of  969  years,  it  can  be  imagined 
that  ponderous  tomes  would  not  hold  the 
tales  he  told  whenever  he  was  encouraged. 

One  day,  however,  Methuselah's  grandson 
Noah  took  the  old  gentleman  aside  and  con 
fided  into  his  ear-trumpet  a  very  solemn 
secret  which  must  have  grieved  the  old  gen 
tleman  immensely,  for  he  gnashed  his  gums 
and  wrung  his  thin,  bony  hands  and  groaned 
dolorously. 

"The  end  of  all  flesh  is  at  hand,"  said 
Noah.  "The  earth  is  filled  with  violence 
through  them,  and  God  will  destroy  them 
with  the  earth.  I  will  make  an  ark  of  go 
pher-wood,  the  length  thereof  300  cubits, 
the  breadth  of  it  50  cubits,  and  the  height 
142 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

of  it  30  cubits,  and  I  will  pitch  it  within  and 
without  with  pitch.  Into  the  ark  will  I  come, 
and  my  sons  and  my  wife,  and  my  sons' 
wives,  and  certain  living  beasts  shall  come, 
and  birds  of  the  air,  and  we  and  they  shall 
be  saved.  Come  thou  also,  for  thou  art  an 
austere  man  and  a  just." 

But  as  Methuselah  sate  alone  upon  his 
couch  that  night  he  thought  of  his  life:  how 
sweet  it  had  been, —  how  that,  despite  the 
evil  now  and  then,  there  had  been  more  of 
happiness  than  of  sorrow  in  it.  He  even 
forgot  the  wickedness  of  the  world  and  re 
membered  only  its  good  and  its  sunshine, 
its  kindness  and  its  love.  He  blessed  God 
for  it  all,  and  he  prayed  for  the  death-angel 
to  come  to  him  ere  he  beheld  the  destruction 
of  all  he  so  much  loved. 

Then  the  angel  came  and  spread  his  sha 
dow  about  the  old  man. 

And  the  angel  said :  "Thy  prayer  is  heard, 
and  God  doth  forgive  thee  the  score-and- 
ten  years  of  the  promised  span  of  thy  life." 

And  Methuselah  gathered  up  his  feet  into 
the  bed,  and  prattling  of  the  brooks,  he  fell 
asleep;  and  so  he  slept  with  his  fathers. 

143 


f  tfice  an& 


FELICE  AND  PETIT-POULAIN 


THE  name  was  singularly  appropriate, 
for  assuredly  Felice  was  the  happiest 
of  all  four-footed  creatures.  Her  nature  was 
gentle;  she  was  obedient,  long-suffering, 
kind.  She  had  known  what  it  was  to  toil 
and  to  bear  burdens;  sometimes  she  had 
suffered  from  hunger  and  from  thirst;  and 
before  she  came  into  the  possession  of  Jacques 
she  had  been  beaten,  for  Pierre,  her  former 
owner,  was  a  hard  master.  But  Felice  was 
always  a  kind,  faithful,  and  gentle  creature; 
presumably  that  was  why  they  named  her 
that  pretty  name,  Felice.  She  may  not  have 
been  happy  when  Pierre  owned  and  over 
worked  and  starved  and  beat  her;  that  does 
not  concern  us  now,  for  herein  it  is  to  tell 
of  that  time  when  she  belonged  to  Jacques, 
and  Jacques  was  a  merciful  man. 
Jacques  was  a  farmer;  he  lived  a  short 

•47 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

distance  from  Cinqville,  which,  as  you  are 
probably  aware,  is  a  town  of  considerable 
importance  upon  what  used  to  be  the  boun 
dary  line  between  France  and  Germany.  The 
country  round  about  is  devoted  to  agriculture. 
You  can  fancy  that,  with  its  even  roads, 
leafy  woods,  quiet  lanes,  velvety  paddocks, 
tall  hedges,  and  bountiful  fields,  this  country 
was  indeed  as  pleasant  a  home  as  Felice  — 
or,  for  that  matter,  any  other  properly  minded 
horse — could  hopefor.  Toward  the  southern 
horizon  there  were  hills  that  looked  a  grayish 
blue  from  a  distance;  upon  these  hills  were 
vineyards,  and  the  wine  that  came  therefrom 
is  very  famous  wine,  as  your  uncle,  if  he 
be  a  club  man,  will  very  truly  assure  you. 
There  was  a  pretty  little  river  that  curled 
like  a  silver  snake  through  the  fertile  mead 
ows,  and  lost  its  way  among  the  hills,  and 
there  were  many  tiny  brooks  that  scampered 
across  lots  and  got  tangled  up  with  that 
pretty  little  river  in  most  bewildering  fashion. 
So,  as  you  can  imagine,  this  was  a  fair  coun 
try,  and  you  do  not  wonder  that,  with  so 
merciful  a  master  as  Jacques,  our  friend  Fe 
lice  was  happy. 

148 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

But  what  perfected  her  happiness  was  the 
coming  of  her  little  colt,  as  cunning  and  as 
blithe  a  creature  as  ever  whisked  a  tail  or 
galloped  on  four  legs.  I  do  not  know  why 
they  called  him  by  that  name,  but  Petit- 
Poulain  was  what  they  called  him,  and  that 
name  seemed  to  please  Felice,  for  when  far 
mer  Jacques  came  thrice  a  day  to  the  stile 
and  cried,  "  Petit-Poulain,  petit,  petit,  Petit- 
Poulain!"  the  kind  old  mother  would  look 
up  fondly,  and,  with  doting  eyes,  watch  her 
dainty  little  colt  go  bounding  toward  his 
calling  master.  And  he  was  indeed  a  lovely 
little  fellow.  The  cure,  the  holy  pere  Fran- 
9ois,  predicted  that  in  due  time  that  colt 
would  make  a  great  name  for  himself  and  a 
great  fortune  for  his  owner.  The  holy  pere 
knew  whereof  he  spake,  for  in  his  youth  he 
had  tasted  of  the  sweets  of  Parisian  life,  and 
upon  one  memorable  occasion  had  success 
fully  placed  ten  francs  upon  the  winner  of 
le  grand  prix.  We  can  suppose  that  Felice 
thought  well  of  the  holy  pere.  He  never 
came  down  the  road  that  she  did  not  thrust 
her  nose  through  the  hedge  and  give  a  mild 
whinny  of  recognition,  as  if  she  fain  would 
149 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

say:  "Pray  stop  a  moment  and  see  Petit- 
Poulain  and  his  old  mother!" 

What  happy  days  those  were  for  Felice 
and  her  darling  colt.  With  what  tender 
ness  they  played  together  in  the  paddock; 
or,  when  the  sky  was  overcast  and  a  storm 
came  on,  with  what  solicitude  would  the 
old  mother  lead  the  way  into  the  thatched 
stable,  where  there  was  snug  protection 
against  the  threatening  element.  There  are 
those  who  say  that  none  but  humankind  is 
immortal, — that  none  but  man  has  a  soul. 
I  do  not  make  or  believe  that  claim.  There 
is  that  within  me  which  tells  me  that  no 
thing  in  this  world  and  life  of  ours  which 
has  felt  the  grace  of  maternity  shall  utterly 
perish.  And  this  I  say  in  all  reverence,  and 
with  the  hope  that  I  offend  neither  God  nor 
man. 

You  are  to  know  that  old  Felice's  devo 
tion  to  Petit-Poulain  was  human  in  its  ten 
derness.  As  readily,  as  gladly,  and  as  surely 
as  your  dear  mother  would  lay  down  her 
life  for  you  would  old  Felice  have  yielded  up 
her  life  for  her  innocent,  blithe  darling.  So 
old  Felice  was  happy  that  pleasant  time  in 
150 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

that  fair  country,  and  Petit-Poulain  waxed 
hale  and  evermore  blithe  and  beautiful. 

Happy  days,  too,  were  those  for  that 
peaceful  country  and  the  other  dwellers 
therein.  There  was  no  thought  of  evil  there ; 
the  seasons  were  propitious,  the  vineyards 
thrived,  the  crops  were  bountiful;  as  far  as 
eye  could  see  all  was  prosperity  and  con 
tentment.  But  one  day  the  holy  Father 
Francois  came  hurrying  down  the  road,  and 
it  was  too  evident  that  he  brought  evil  tid 
ings.  Felice  thought  it  very  strange  that  he 
paid  no  heed  to  her  when,  as  was  her  wont, 
she  thrust  her  nose  through  the  hedge  and 
gave  a  mild  whinny  of  welcome.  Anon  she 
saw  that  he  talked  long  and  earnestly  with 
her  master  Jacques,  and  presently  she  saw 
that  Jacques  went  into  the  cottage  and  came 
again  therefrom  with  his  wife  Justine  and 
kissed  her,  and  then  went  away  with  Pere 
Francois  toward  the  town  off  yonder.  Felice 
saw  that  Justine  was  weeping,  and  with 
never  a  suspicion  of  impending  evil,  she 
wondered  why  Justine  should  weep  when 
all  was  so  prosperous  and  bright  and  fair 
and  happy  about  her.  Felice  saw  and  won- 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

dered,  and  meanwhile  Petit-Poulain  scam 
pered  gayly  about  that  velvety  paddock. 

That  night  the  vineyard  hills,  bathed  in 
the  mellow  grace  of  moonlight,  saw  a  sight 
they  had  never  seen  before.  From  the  east 
an  army  came  riding  and  marching  on, — an 
army  of  strange,  determined  men,  speaking 
a  language  before  unheard  in  that  fair  coun 
try  and  threatening  things  of  which  that 
peaceful  valley  had  never  dreamed.  You 
and  I,  of  course,  know  that  these  were  the 
Germans  advancing  upon  France, — a  nation 
of  immortals  eager  to  destroy  the  posses 
sions  and  the  human  lives  of  fellow-immor 
tals!  But  old  Felice,  hearing  the  din  away 
off  yonder, — the  unwonted  noise  of  cavalry 
and  infantry  advancing  with  murderous  in 
tent, — she  did  not  understand  it  all,  she  did 
not  even  suspect  the  truth.  You  cannot 
wonder,  for  what  should  a  soulless  beast 
know  of  the  noble,  the  human  privilege  of 
human  slaughter?  Old  Felice  heard  that 
strange  din,  and  instinct  led  her  to  coax  her 
little  colt  from  the  pleasant  paddock  into 
that  snug  and  secure  retreat,  the  thatched 
stable,  and  there,  in  the  early  morning,  they 
152 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

found  her,  Petit-Poulain  pulling  eagerly  at 
her  generous  dugs. 

Those  who  came  riding  up  were  strangers 
in  those  parts;  they  were  ominously  ac 
coutred  and  they  spoke  words  that  old  Felice 
had  never  heard  before.  Yes,  as  you  have 
already  guessed,  they  were  German  cavalry 
men.  A  battle  was  impending,  and  they 
needed  more  horses. 

"Old  enough;  but  in  lieu  of  a  better,  she 
will  do."  That  was  what  they  said.  They 
approached  her  carefully,  for  they  suspected 
that  she  might  be  vicious.  Poor  old  Felice, 
she  had  never  harmed  even  the  flies  that 
pestered  her.  "They  are  going  to  put  me 
at  the  plough,"  she  thought.  "It  is  a  long 
time  since  I  did  work  of  any  kind, — nothing, 
in  fact,  since  Petit-Poulain  was  born.  Poor 
Petit-Poulain  will  miss  me;  but  I  will  soon 
return."  With  these  thoughts  she  turned 
her  head  fondly  and  caressed  her  pretty 
colt. 

"The  colt  must  be  tied  in  the  stall  or  he 
will  follow  her."  So  said  the  cavalrymen. 
They  threw  a  rope  about  his  neck  and  made 
him  fast  in  the  stable.  Petit-Poulain  was 

'53 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

very  much  surprised,  and  he  remonstrated 
vainly  with  his  fierce  little  heels. 

They  put  a  halter  upon  old  Felice.  Jus 
tine,  the  farmer's  wife,  met  them  in  the  yard, 
and  reproached  them  wildly  in  French. 
They  laughed  boisterously,  and  answered 
her  in  German.  Then  they  rode  away,  lead 
ing  old  Felice,  who  kept  turning  her  head 
and  whinnying  pathetically,  for  she  was 
thinking  of  Petit-Poulain. 

Of  peace  I  know  and  can  speak, — of 
peace,  with  its  solace  of  love,  plenty,  honor, 
fame,  happiness,  and  its  pathetic  tragedy  of 
poverty,  heartache,  disappointment,  tears, 
bereavement.  Of  war  I  know  nothing,  and 
never  shall  know;  it  is  not  in  my  heart  or 
for  my  hand  to  break  that  law  which  God 
enjoined  from  Sinai  and  Christ  confirmed  in 
Galilee.  I  do  not  know  of  war,  nor  can  I 
tell  you  of  that  battle  which  men  with  im 
mortal  souls  fought  one  glorious  day  in  a 
fertile  country  with  vineyard  hills  all  round 
about.  But  when  night  fell  there  was  deso 
lation  everywhere  and  death.  The  Eden 
was  a  wilderness;  the  winding  river  was 
choked  with  mangled  corpses;  shell  and 
'54 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

shot  had  mowed  down  the  acres  of  waving 
grain,  the  exuberant  orchards,  the  gardens 
and  the  hedgerows;  black,  charred  ruins, 
gaunt  and  ghostlike,  marked  the  spots  where 
homes  had  stood.  The  vines  had  been  cut 
and  torn  away,  and  the  despoiled  hills 
seemed  to  crouch  down  like  bereaved  mo 
thers  under  the  pitiless  gaze  of  the  myriad 
eyes  of  heaven. 

The  victors  went  their  way;  a  greater 
triumph  was  in  store  for  them;  a  mighty 
capital  was  to  be  besieged;  more  homes 
were  to  be  desolated, — more  blood  shed, 
more  hearts  broken.  So  the  victors  went 
their  way,  their  hands  red  and  their  immor 
tal  souls  elated. 

In  the  early  dawn  a  horse  came  galloping 
homeward.  It  is  Felice,  old  Felice,  rider 
less,  splashed  with  mud,  wild-eyed,  sore 
with  fatigue!  Felice,  Felice,  what  horrors 
hast  thou  not  seen!  If  thou  couldst  speak, 
if  that  tongue  of  thine  could  be  loosed,  what 
would  it  say  of  those  who,  forgetful  of  their 
souls,  sink  lower  than  the  soulless  brutes! 
Better  it  is  thou  canst  not  speak;  the  an 
guish  in  thine  eyes,  the  despair  in  thy  honest 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

heart,  the  fear,  the  awful  fear  in  thy  mother 
breast, — what  tongue  could  utter  them  ? 

Adown  the  road  she  galloped, — the  same 
road  she  had  traversed,  perhaps,  a  thousand 
times  before,  yet  it  was  so  changed  now 
she  hardly  knew  it.  Twenty-four  hours 
had  ruthlessly  levelled  the  noble  trees,  the 
hedgerows,  and  the  fields  of  grain.  Twenty- 
four  hours  of  battle  had  done  all  this  and 
more.  In  all  those  ghastly  hours,  one  thought 
had  haunted  Felice;  one  thought  alone, — 
the  thought  of  Petit-Poulain !  She  pictured 
him  tied  in  that  far-away  stall,  wondering 
why  she  did  not  come.  He  was  hungry, 
she  knew;  her  dugs  were  full  of  milk  and 
they  pained  her;  how  sweet  would  be  her 
relief  when  her  Petit-Poulain  broke  his  long 
fast.  Petit-Poulain,  Petit-Poulain,  Petit-Pou 
lain, —  this  one  thought  and  this  alone  had 
old  Felice  throughout  those  hours  of  battle 
and  of  horror. 

Could  this  have  been  the  farm-house  ?  It 
was  a  ruin  now.  Shells  had  torn  it  apart. 
Where  was  the  good  master  Jacques;  had 
he  gone  with  the  cure  to  the  defence  of  the 
town?  And  Justine, — where  was  she? 
156 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Bullets  had  cut  away  the  rose-trees  and 
the  smoke-bush ;  the  garden  was  no  more. 
The  havoc,  the  desolation,  was  complete.  The 
cote,  which  had  surmounted  the  pole  around 
which  an  ivy  twined,  had  been  swept  away. 
The  pigeons  now  circled  here  and  there  be 
wildered;  wondering,  perhaps,  why  Justine 
did  not  come  and  call  to  them  and  feed  them. 

To  this  seared,  scarred  spot  came  old 
Felice.  He  that  had  ridden  her  into  battle 
lay  with  his  face  downward  near  those  dis 
tant  vineyard  hills.  His  blood  had  stained 
Felice's  neck;  a  bullet  had  grazed  her  flank, 
but  that  was  a  slight  wound, — riderless,  she 
turned  and  came  from  the  battle-field  and 
sought  her  Petit-Poulain  once  again. 

Hard  by  the  ruins  of  cottage,  of  garden, 
and  of  cote,  she  came  up  standing;  she  was 
steaming  and  breathless.  She  rolled  her 
eyes  wildly  around, — she  looked  for  the 
stable  where  she  had  left  Petit-Poulain.  She 
trembled  as  if  an  overwhelming  apprehen 
sion  of  disaster  suddenly  possessed  her. 
She  gave  a  whinny,  pathetic  in  its  tender 
ness.  She  was  calling  Petit-Poulain.  But 
there  was  no  answer. 
157 


THE   HOLY   CROSS  AND   OTHER  TALES 

Petit-Poulain  lay  dead  in  the  ruins  of  the 
stable.  His  shelter  had  not  escaped  the  fury 
of  the  battle.  He  could  not  run  away,  for 
they  had  tied  him  fast  when  they  carried  his 
old  mother  off.  So  now  he  lay  amid  that 
debris,  his  eyes  half  open  in  death  and  his 
legs  stretched  out  stark  and  stiff. 

And  old  Felice, —  her  udder  bursting  with 
the  maternal  grace  he  never  again  should 
know,  and  her  heart  breaking  with  the  agony 
of  sudden  and  awful  bereavement, —  she 
staggered,  as  if  blinded  by  despair,  toward 
that  vestige  of  her  love,  and  bent  over  him 
and  caressed  her  Petit-Poulain. 


158 


niter 


THE   RIVER 


ONCE  upon  a  time  a  little  boy  came,  dur 
ing  his  play,  to  the  bank  of  a  river. 
The  waters  of  the  river  were  very  dark  and 
wild,  and  there  was  so  black  a  cloud  over 
the  river  that  the  .ittle  boy  could  not  see  the 
further  shore.  An  icy  wind  came  up  from 
the  cloud  and  chilled  the  little  boy,  and  he 
trembled  with  cold  and  fear  as  the  wind  smote 
his  cheeks  and  ran  its  slender  icicle  fingers 
through  his  yellow  curls.  An  old  man  sat 
on  the  bank  of  the  river;  he  was  very,  very 
old;  his  head  and  shoulders  were  covered 
with  a  black  mantle;  and  his  beard  was  white 
as  snow. 

"Will  you  come  with  me,  little  boy?" 
asked  the  old  man. 

"Where  ?"  inquired  the  little  boy. 
161 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

"  To  yonder  shore,"  replied  the  old  man. 

"Oh,  no;  not  to  that  dark  shore,  "said  the 
little  boy.  "  I  should  be  afraid  to  go." 

"  But  think  of  the  sunlight  always  there," 
said  the  old  man,  "the  birds  and  flowers; 
and  remember  there  is  no  pain,  nor  anything 
of  that  kind  to  vex  you." 

The  little  boy  looked  and  saw  the  dark 
cloud  hanging  over  the  waters,  and  he  felt 
the  cold  wind  come  up  from  the  river;  more 
over,  the  sight  of  the  strange  man  terrified 
him.  So,  hearing  his  mother  calling  him, 
the  little  boy  ran  back  to  his  home,  leaving 
the  old  man  by  the  river  alone. 

Many  years  after  that  time  the  little  boy 
came  again  to  the  river;  but  he  was  not  a 
little  boy  now, —  he  was  a  big,  strong  man. 

"The  river  is  the  same,"  said  he;  "the 
wind  is  the  same  cold,  cutting  wind  of  ice, 
and  the  same  black  cloud  obscures  yonder 
shore.  I  wonder  where  the  strange  old  man 
can  be." 

"I  am  he,"  said  a  solemn  voice. 

The  man  turned  and  looked  on  him  who 
spoke,  and  he  saw  a  warrior  clad  in  black 
armor  and  wielding  an  iron  sword. 
162 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

"No,  you  are  not  he!"  cried  the  man. 
"  You  are  a  warrior  come  to  do  me  harm." 

"I  am  indeed  a  warrior,"  said  the  other. 
"Come  with  me  across  the  river." 

' '  No, "  replied  the  man, ' '  I  will  not  go  with 
you.  Hark,  I  hear  the  voices  of  my  wife 
and  children  calling  to  me, —  I  will  return 
to  them ! " 

The  warrior  strove  to  hold  him  fast  and 
bear  him  across  the  river  to  the  yonder  shore, 
but  the  man  prevailed  against  him  and  re 
turned  to  his  wife  and  little  ones,  and  the 
warrior  was  left  upon  the  river-bank. 

Then  many  years  went  by  and  the  strong 
man  became  old  and  feeble.  He  found  no 
pleasure  in  the  world,  for  he  was  weary  of 
living.  His  wife  and  children  were  dead,  and 
the  old  man  was  alone.  So  one  day  in  those 
years  he  came  to  the  bank  of  the  river  for  the 
third  time,  and  he  saw  that  the  waters  had 
become  quiet  and  that  the  wind  which  came 
up  from  the  river  was  warm  and  gentle  and 
smelled  of  flowers;  there  was  no  dark  cloud 
overhanging  the  yonder  shore,  but  in  its 
place  was  a  golden  mist  through  which  the 
old  man  could  see  people  walking  on  the 
163 


THE  HOLY  CROSS  AND  OTHER  TALES 

yonder  shore  and  stretching  out  their  hands 
to  him,  and  he  could  hear  them  calling  him 
by  name.  Then  he  knew  they  were  the 
voices  of  his  dear  ones. 

"I  am  weary  and  lonesome,"  cried  the 
old  man.  "  All  have  gone  before  me :  father, 
mother,  wife,  children, — all  whom  I  have 
loved.  I  see  them  and  hear  them  on  yonder 
shore,  but  who  will  bear  me  to  them  ?" 

Then  a  spirit  came  in  answer  to  this  cry. 
But  the  spirit  was  not  a  strange  old  man  nor 
yet  an  armored  warrior;  but  as  he  came  to 
the  river's  bank  that  day  he  was  a  gentle  an 
gel,  clad  in  white;  his  face  was  very  beauti 
ful,  and  there  was  divine  tenderness  in  his 
eyes. 

"Rest  thy  head  upon  my  bosom,"  said 
the  angel,  "and  I  will  bear  thee  across  the 
river  to  those  who  call  thee." 

So,  with  the  sweet  peace  of  a  little  child 
sinking  to  his  slumbers,  the  old  man  drooped 
in  the  arms  of  the  angel  and  was  borne  across 
the  river  to  those  who  stood  upon  the  yon 
der  shore  and  called. 


164 


FRANZ    ABT 


MANY  years  ago  a  young  composer  was 
sitting  in  a  garden.  All  around  bloomed 
beautiful  roses,  and  through  the  gentle  even 
ing  air  the  swallows  flitted,  twittering 
cheerily.  The  young  composer  neither  saw 
the  roses  nor  heard  the  evening  music  of  the 
swallows;  his  heart  was  full  of  sadness  and 
his  eyes  were  bent  wearily  upon  the  earth 
before  him. 

"  Why,"  said  the  young  composer,  with  a 
sigh,  "should  I  be  doomed  to  all  this  bitter 
disappointment  ?  Learning  seems  vain,  pa 
tience  is  mocked, — fame  is  as  far  from  me 
as  ever. 

The  roses  heard  his  complaint.  They 
bent  closer  to  him  and  whispered,  "Listen 
to  us, —  listen  to  us."  And  the  swallows 
heard  him,  too,  and  they  flitted  nearer  him; 
and  they,  too,  twittered,  "Listen  to  us, — 
listen  to  us."  But  the  young  composer  was 
167 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

in  no  mood  to  be  beguiled  by  the  whisper 
ings  of  the  roses  and  the  twitterings  of  the 
birds;  with  a  heavy  heart  and  sighing  bit 
terly  he  arose  and  went  his  way. 

It  came  to  pass  that  many  times  after  that 
the  young  composer  came  at  evening  and 
sat  in  the  garden  where  the  roses  bloomed 
and  the  swallows  twittered;  his  heart  was 
always  full  of  disappointment,  and  often  he 
cried  out  in  anguish  against  the  cruelty  of 
fame  that  it  came  not  to  him.  And  each 
time  the  roses  bent  closer  to  him,  and  the 
swallows  flew  lower,  and  there  in  the  garden 
the  sweet  flowers  and  little  birds  cried, 
"Listen  to  us,  —  listen  to  us,  and  we  will 
help  you." 

And  one  evening  the  young  composer, 
hearing  their  gentle  pleadings,  smiled  sadly, 
and  said:  "  Yes,  I  will  listen  to  you.  What 
have  you  to  say,  pretty  roses  ?  " 

"  Make  your  songs  of  us,"  whispered  the 
roses, — "make  your  songs  of  us." 

"Ha,  ha!"  laughed  the  composer.  "A 
song  of  the  roses  would  be  very  strange,  in 
deed!  No,  sweet  flowers,  —  it  is  fame  I 
seek,  and  fame  would  scorn  even  the  beauty 
168 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

of  your  blushes  and  the  subtlety  of  your 
perfumes." 

"You  are  wrong,"  twittered  the  swal 
lows,  flying  lower.  "You  are  wrong,  fool 
ish  man.  Make  a  song  for  the  heart, — make 
a  song  of  the  swallows  and  the  roses,  and 
it  will  be  sung  forever,  and  your  fame  shall 
never  die." 

But  the  composer  laughed  louder  than  be 
fore;  surely  there  never  had  been  a  stranger 
suggestion  than  that  of  the  roses  and  the 
swallows!  Still,  in  his  chamber  that  night 
the  composer  thought  of  what  the  swallows 
had  said,  and  in  his  dreams  he  seemed  to 
hear  the  soft  tones  of  the  roses  pleading 
with  him.  Yes,  many  times  thereafter  the 
composer  recalled  what  the  birds  and  flowers 
had  said,  but  he  never  would  ask  them  as 
he  sat  in  the  garden  at  evening  how  he  could 
make  the  heart-song  of  which  they  chat 
tered.  And  the  summer  sped  swiftly  by, 
and  one  evening  when  the  composer  came 
into  the  garden  the  roses  were  dead,  and 
their  leaves  lay  scattered  on  the  ground. 
There  were  no  swallows  fluttering  in  the 
sky,  and  the  nests  under  the  eaves  were 
169 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

deserted.  Then  the  composer  knew  his 
little  friends  were  beyond  recall,  and  he  was 
oppressed  by  a  feeling  of  loneliness.  The 
roses  and  the  swallows  had  grown  to  be  a 
solace  to  the  composer,  had  stolen  into  his 
heart  all  unawares,  —  now  that  they  were 
gone,  he  was  filled  with  sadness. 

"I  will  do  as  they  counselled,"  said  he; 
"I  will  make  a  song  of  them, —  a  song  of 
the  swallows  and  the  roses.  I  will  forget 
my  greed  for  fame  while  I  write  in  memory 
of  my  little  friends." 

Then  the  composer  made  a  song  of  the 
swallows  and  the  roses,  and,  while  he  wrote, 
it  seemed  to  him  that  he  could  hear  the  twit 
tering  of  the  little  birds  all  around  him,  and 
scent  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers,  and  his  soul 
was  warmed  with  a  warmth  he  had  never  felt 
before,  and  his  tears  fell  upon  his  manuscript. 

When  the  world  heard  the  song  which  the 
composer  had  made  of  the  swallows  and  the 
roses,  it  did  homage  to  his  genius.  Such 
sentiment,  such  delicacy,  such  simplicity, 
such  melody,  such  heart,  such  soul, — ah, 
there  was  no  word  of  rapturous  praise  too 
good  for  the  com  poser  now :  fame,  the  sweet- 
170 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

est  and  most  enduring  kind  of  fame,  had 
come  to  him. 

And  the  swallows  and  the  roses  had  done 
it  all.  Their  subtle  influences  had  filled  the 
composer's  soul  with  a  great  inspiration, — 
by  means  like  this  God  loves  to  speak  to  the 
human  heart. 

"We  told  you  so,"  whispered  the  roses 
when  they  came  again  in  the  spring.  "  We 
told  you  that  if  you  sang  of  us  the  world 
would  love  your  song." 

Then  the  swallows,  flying  back  from  the 
south,  twittered:  "We  told  you  so;  sing 
the  songs  the  heart  loves,  and  you  shall  live 
forever." 

"Ah,  dear  ones,"  said  the  composer, 
softly;  "  you  spoke  the  truth.  He  who  seeks 
a  fame  that  is  immortal  has  only  to  reach 
and  abide  in  the  human  heart." 

The  lesson  he  learned  of  the  swallows  and 
the  roses  he  never  forgot.  It  was  the  inspira 
tion  and  motive  of  a  long  and  beautiful  life. 
He  left  for  others  that  which  some  called 
a  loftier  ambition.  He  was  content  to  sit 
among  the  flowers  and  hear  the  twitter  of 
birds  and  make  songs  that  found  an  echo  in 
171 


THE  HOLY  CROSS  AND  OTHER  TALES 

all  breasts.  Ah,  there  was  such  a  beautiful 
simplicity, —  such  a  sweet  wisdom  in  his  life ! 
And  where'er  the  swallows  flew,  and  where'er 
the  roses  bloomed,  he  was  famed  and  re 
vered  and  beloved,  and  his  songs  were  sung. 

Then  his  hair  grew  white  at  last,  and  his 
eyes  were  dim  and  his  steps  were  slow.  A 
mortal  illness  came  upon  him,  and  he  knew 
that  death  was  nigh. 

"The  winter  has  been  long,"  said  he, 
wearily.  "  Open  the  window  and  raise  me 
up  that  I  may  see  the  garden,  for  it  must  be 
that  spring  is  come." 

It  was  indeed  spring,  but  the  roses  had  not 
yet  bloomed.  The  swallows  were  chattering 
in  their  nests  under  the  eaves  or  flitting  in  the 
mild,  warm  sky. 

"Hear  them,"  he  said  faintly.  "How 
sweetly  they  sing.  But  alas!  where  are  the 
roses  ? " 

Where  are  the  roses  ?  Heaped  over  thee, 
dear  singing  heart;  blooming  on  thy  quiet 
grave  in  the  Fatherland,  and  clustered  and 
entwined  all  in  and  about  thy  memory,  which 
with  thy  songs  shall  go  down  from  heart  to 
heart  to  immortality. 

172 


MISTRESS  MERCILESS 


THIS  is  to  tell  of  our  little  Mistress  Mer 
ciless,  who  for  a  season  abided  with  us, 
but  is  now  and  forever  gone  from  us  unto 
the  far-off  land  of  Ever-Plaisance.  The  tale 
is  soon  told ;  for  it  were  not  seemly  to  speak 
all  the  things  that  are  in  one's  heart  when 
one  hath  to  say  of  a  much-beloved  child, 
whose  life  here  hath  been  shortened  so  that, 
in  God's  wisdom  and  kindness,  her  life  shall 
be  longer  in  that  garden  that  bloometh  far 
away. 

You  shall  know  that  all  did  call  her  Mis 
tress  Merciless ;  but  her  mercilessness  was  of 
a  sweet,  persuasive  kind :  for  with  the  beauty 
of  her  face  and  the  music  of  her  voice  and 
the  exceeding  sweetness  of  her  virtues  was 
she  wont  to  slay  all  hearts ;  and  this  she  did 
unwittingly,  for  she  was  a  little  child.  And 
so  it  was  in  love  that  we  did  call  her  Mistress 

'75 


THE  HOLY   CROSS 

Merciless,  just  as  it  was  in  love  that  she  did 
lord  it  over  all  our  hearts. 

Upon  a  time  walked  she  in  a  full  fair  gar 
den,  and  there  went  with  her  an  handmaiden 
that  we  did  call  in  merry  wise  the  Queen  of 
Sheba;  for  this  handmaiden  was  in  sooth 
no  queen  at  all,  but  a  sorry  and  ill-favored 
wench ;  but  she  was  assotted  upon  our  little 
Mistress  Merciless  and  served  her  diligently, 
and  for  that  good  reason  was  vastly  beholden 
of  us  all.  Yet,  in  a  jest,  we  called  her  the 
Queen,  of  Sheba ;  and  I  make  a  venture  that 
she  looked  exceeding  fair  in  the  eyes  of  our 
little  Mistress  Merciless:  for  the  eyes  of  chil 
dren  look  not  upon  the  faces  but  into  the 
hearts  and  souls  of  others.  Whilst  these 
two  walked  in  the  full  fair  garden  at  that 
time  they  came  presently  unto  an  arbor 
wherein  there  was  a  rustic  seat,  which  was 
called  the  Siege  of  Restfulness;  and  here 
upon  sate  a  little  sick  boy  that,  from  his 
birth,  had  been  lame,  so  that  he  could  not 
play  and  make  merry  with  other  children, 
but  was  wont  to  come  every  day  into  this 
full  fair  garden  and  content  himself  with  the 
companionship  of  the  flowers.  And,  though 
176 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

he  was  a  little  lame  boy,  he  never  trod  upon 
those  flowers;  and  even  had  he  done  so, 
methinks  the  pressure  of  those  crippled  feet 
had  been  a  caress,  for  the  little  lame  boy 
was  filled  with  the  spirit  of  love  and  ten 
derness.  As  the  tiniest,  whitest,  shrinking 
flower  exhaleth  the  most  precious  perfume, 
so  in  and  from  this  little  lame  boy's  life 
there  came  a  grace  that  was  hallowing  in 
its  beauty. 

Since  they  never  before  had  seen  him, 
they  asked  him  his  name;  and  he  answered 
them  that  of  those  at  home  he  was  called 
Master  Sweetheart,  a  name  he  could  not  un 
derstand  :  for  surely,  being  a  cripple,  he  must 
be  a  very  sorry  sweetheart;  yet,  that  he  was 
a  sweetheart  unto  his  mother  at  least  he  had 
no  doubt,  for  she  did  love  to  hold  him  in  her 
lap  and  call  him  by  that  name;  and  many 
times  when  she  did  so  he  saw  that  tears  were 
in  her  eyes,— a  proof,  she  told  him  when 
he  asked,  that  Master  Sweetheart  was  her 
sweetheart  before  all  others  upon  earth. 

It  befell  that  our  little  Mistress  Merciless 
and  Master  Sweetheart  became  fast  friends, 
and  the  Queen  of  Sheba  was  handmaiden  to 
177 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

them  both;  for  the  simple,  loyal  creature 
had  not  a  mind  above  the  artless  prattle  of 
childhood,  and  the  strange  allegory  of  the 
lame  boy's  speech  filled  her  with  awe,  even 
as  the  innocent  lisping  of  our  little  Mistress 
Merciless  delighted  her  heart  and  came  with 
in  the  comprehension  of  her  limited  under 
standing.  So  each  day,  when  it  was  fair, 
these  three  came  into  the  full  fair  garden,  and 
rambled  there  together;  and  when  they  were 
weary  they  entered  into  the  arbor  and  sate 
together  upon  the  Siege  of  Restfulness.  Wit 
ye  well  there  was  not  a  flower  or  a  tree  or  a 
shrub  or  a  bird  in  all  that  full  fair  garden 
which  they  did  not  know  and  love,  and  in 
very  sooth  every  flower  and  tree  and  shrub 
and  bird  therein  did  know  and  !ove  them. 

When  they  entered  into  the  arbor,  and 
sate  together  upon  the  Siege  of  Restfulness, 
it  was  Master  Sweetheart's  wont  to  tell  them 
of  the  land  of  Ever-Plaisance,  for  it  was  a 
conceit  of  his  that  he  journeyed  each  day 
nearer  and  nearer  to  that  land,  and  that  his 
journey  thitherward  was  nearly  done.  How 
came  he  to  know  of  that  land  I  cannot  say, 
for  I  do  not  know;  but  I  am  fain  to  believe 
.78 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

that,  as  he  said,  the  exceeding  fair  angels 
told  him  thereof  when  by  night,  as  he  lay 
sleeping,  they  came  singing  and  with  ca 
resses  to  his  bedside. 

1  speak  now  of  a  holy  thing,  therefore  I 
speak  truth  when  I  say  that  while  little  chil 
dren  lie  sleeping  in  their  beds  at  night  it 
pleaseth  God  to  send  His  exceeding  fair  an 
gels  with  singing  and  caresses  to  bear  mes 
sages  of  His  love  unto  those  little  sleeping 
children.  And  I  have  seen  those  exceeding 
fair  angels  bend  with  folded  wings  over  the 
little  cradles  and  the  little  beds,  and  kiss 
those  little  sleeping  children  and  whisper 
God's  messages  of  love  to  them,  and  I  knew 
that  those  messages  were  full  of  sweet  tid 
ings  ;  for,  even  though  they  slept,  the  little 
children  smiled.  This  have  I  seen,  and  there 
is  none  who  loveth  little  children  that  will 
deny  the  truth  of  this  thing  which  I  have  now 
solemnly  declared. 

Of  that  land  of  Ever-Plaisance  was  our 
little  Mistress  Merciless  ever  fain  to  hear  tell. 
But  when  she  beset  the  rest  of  us  to  speak 
thereof  we  knew  not  what  to  say  other  than 
to  confirm  such  reports  as  Master  Sweet- 
179 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

heart  had  already  made.  For  when  it  com- 
eth  to  knowing  of  that  far-off  land, — ah  me, 
who  knoweth  more  than  the  veriest  little 
child?  And  oftentimes  within  the  bosom 
of  a  little,  helpless,  fading  one  there  bloom- 
eth  a  wisdom  which  sages  cannot  compre 
hend.  So  when  she  asked  us  we  were  wont 
to  bid  her  go  to  Master  Sweetheart,  for  he 
knew  the  truth  and  spake  it. 

It  is  now  to  tell  of  an  adventure  which  on 
a  time  befell  in  that  full  fair  garden  of  which 
you  have  heard  me  speak.  In  this  garden 
lived  many  birds  of  surpassing  beauty  and 
most  rapturous  song,  and  among  them  was 
one  that  they  called  Joyous,  for  that  he  did 
ever  carol  forth  so  joyously,  it  mattered  not 
what  the  day  soever  might  be.  This  bird 
Joyous  had  his  home  in  the  top  of  an  ex 
ceeding  high  tree,  hard  by  the  pleasant  arbor, 
and  here  did  he  use  to  sit  at  such  times  as 
the  little  people  came  into  that  arbor,  and 
then  would  he  sing  to  them  such  songs  as 
befitted  that  quiet  spot,  and  them  that  came 
thereto.  But  there  was  a  full  evil  cat  that 
dwelt  near  by,  and  this  cruel  beast  found  no 
pleasure  in  the  music  that  Joyous  did  make 

180 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

continually;  nay,  that  music  filled  this  full 
evil  cat  with  a  wicked  thirst  for  the  blood  of 
that  singing  innocent,  and  she  had  no  peace 
for  the  malice  that  was  within  her  seeking  to 
devise  a  means  whereby  she  might  compre 
hend  the  bird  Joyous  to  her  murderous  in 
tent.  Now  you  must  know  that  it  was  the 
wont  of  our  little  Mistress  Merciless  and  of 
Master  Sweetheart  to  feed  the  birds  in  that 
fair  garden  with  such  crumbs  as  they  were 
suffered  to  bring  with  them  into  the  arbor, 
and  at  such  times  would  those  birds  fly 
down  with  grateful  twitterings  and  eat  of 
those  crumbs  upon  the  greensward  round 
about  the  arbor.  Wit  ye  well,  it  was  a 
merry  sight  to  see  those  twittering  birds 
making  feast  upon  the  good  things  which 
those  children  brought,  and  our  little  Mis 
tress  Merciless  and  little  Master  Sweetheart 
had  sweet  satisfaction  therein.  But,  on  a 
day,  whilst  thus  those  twittering  birds  made 
great  feasting,  lo!  on  a  sudden  did  that 
full  evil  cat  whereof  I  have  spoken  steal 
softly  from  a  thicket,  and  with  one  hideous 
bound  make  her  way  into  the  very  midst 
of  those  birds  and  seize  upon  that  bird 
181 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

Joyous,  that  was  wont  to  sing  so  merrily 
from  the  tree  hard  by  the  arbor.  Oh,  there 
was  a  mighty  din  and  a  fearful  fluttering, 
and  the  rest  flew  swiftly  away,  but  Joyous 
could  not  do  so,  because  the  full  evil  cat 
held  him  in  her  cruel  fangs  and  claws.  And 
I  make  no  doubt  that  Joyous  would  speedily 
have  met  his  death,  but  that  with  a  wrathful 
cry  did  our  little  Mistress  Merciless  hasten 
to  his  rescue.  And  our  little  Mistress  be 
labored  that  full  evil  cat  with  Master  Sweet 
heart's  crutch,  until  that  cruel  beast  let  loose 
her  hold  upon  the  fluttering  bird  and  was 
full  glad  to  escape  with  her  aching  bones 
into  the  thicket  again.  So  it  was  that  Joy 
ous  was  recovered  from  death;  but  even 
then  might  it  have  fared  ill  with  him,  had 
they  nottaken  him  up  and  dressed  his  wounds 
and  cared  for  him  until  duly  he  was  well 
again.  And  then  they  released  him  to  do 
his  plaisance,  and  he  returned  to  his  home 
in  the  tree  hard  by  the  arbor  and  there  he 
sung  unto  those  children  more  sweetly  than 
ever  before ;  for  his  heart  was  full  of  gratitude 
to  our  little  Mistress  Merciless  and  Master 
Sweetheart. 

182 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Now,  of  the  dolls  that  she  had  in  goodly 
number,  that  one  which  was  named  Beautiful 
did  our  little  Mistress  Merciless  love  best. 
Know  well  that  the  doll  Beautiful  had  come 
not  from  oversea,  and  was  neither  of  wax  nor 
of  china;  but  she  was  right  ingeniously  con 
structed  of  a  bed-key  that  was  made  of 
wood,  and  unto  the  top  of  this  bed-key  had 
the  Queen  of  Sheba  superadded  a  head  with 
a  fair  face,  and  upon  the  body  and  the  arms 
of  the  key  had  she  hung  passing  noble  rai 
ment.  Unto  this  doll  Beautiful  was  our  lit 
tle  Mistress  Merciless  vastly  beholden,  and 
she  did  use  to  have  the  doll  Beautiful  lie 
by  her  side  at  night  whilst  she  slept,  and 
whithersoever  during  the  day  she  went,  there 
also  would  she  take  the  doll  Beautiful,  too. 
Much  sorrow  and  lamentation,  therefore, 
made  our  little  Mistress  Merciless  when  on 
an  evil  day  the  doll  Beautiful  by  chance  fell 
into  the  fish-pond,  and  was  not  rescued  there 
from  until  one  of  her  beauteous  eyes  had 
been  devoured  of  the  envious  water;  so  that 
ever  thereafter  the  doll  Beautiful  had  but 
one  eye,  and  that,  forsooth,  was  grievously 
faded.  And  on  another  evil  day  came  a 
183 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

monster  ribald  dog  pup  and  seized  upon 
the  doll  Beautiful  whilst  she  reposed  in  the  ar 
bor,  and  bore  her  away,  and  romped  boister 
ously  with  her  upon  the  sward,  and  tore  off 
her  black-thread  hair,  and  sought  to  destroy 
her  wholly,  which  surely  he  would  have 
done  but  for  the  Queen  of  Sheba,  who  made 
haste  to  rescue  the  doll  Beautiful,  and  chas 
tise  that  monster  ribald  dog  pup. 

Therefore,  as  you  can  understand,  the 
time  was  right  busily  spent.  The  full  fair 
garden,  with  its  flowers  and  the  singing 
birds  and  the  gracious  arbor  and  the  Siege 
of  Restfulness,  found  favor  with  those  chil 
dren,  and  amid  these  joyous  scenes  did 
Master  Sweetheart  have  to  tell  each  day  of 
that  far-off  land  of  Ever-Plaisance,  whither 
he  said  he  was  going.  And  one  day,  when 
the  sun  shone  very  bright,  and  the  full  fair 
garden  joyed  in  the  music  of  those  birds, 
Master  Sweetheart  did  not  come,  and  they 
missed  the  little  lame  boy  and  wondered 
where  he  was.  And  as  he  never  came 
again  they  thought  at  last  that  of  a  surety 
he  had  departed  into  that  country  whereof 
he  loved  to  tell.  Which  thing  filled  our  lit- 
184 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

tie  Mistress  Merciless  with  wonder  and  in 
quiry;  and  I  think  she  was  lonely  ever  after 
that, — lonely  for  Master  Sweetheart. 

I  am  thinking  now  of  her  and  of  him; 
for  this  is  the  Christmas  season, — the  time 
when  it  is  most  meet  to  think  of  the  children 
and  other  sweet  and  holy  things.  There 
is  snow  everywhere,  snow  and  cold.  The 
garden  is  desolate  and  voiceless:  the  flowers 
are  gone,  the  trees  are  ghosts,  the  birds  have 
departed.  It  is  winter  out  there,  and  it  is 
winter,  too,  in  this  heart  of  mine.  Yet  in 
this  Christmas  season  1  think  of  them,  and 
it  pleaseth  me — God  forbid  that  I  offend 
with  much  speaking — it  pleaseth  me  to  tell 
of  the  little  things  they  did  and  loved.  And 
you  shall  understand  it  all  if,  perchance, 
this  sacred  Christmas  time  a  little  Mistress 
Merciless  of  your  own,  or  a  little  Master 
Sweetheart,  clingeth  to  your  knee  and  sanc- 
tifieth  your  hearthstone. 

When  of  an  evening  all  the  joy  of  day  was 
done,  would  our  little  Mistress  Merciless 
fall  aweary;  and  then  her  eyelids  would 
grow  exceeding  heavy  and  her  little  tired 
hands  were  fain  to  fold.  At  such  a  time  it 
185 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

was  my  wont  to  beguile  her  weariness  with 
little  tales  of  faery,  or  with  the  gentle  play 
that  sleepy  children  like.  Much  was  her 
fancy  taken  with  what  I  told  her  of  the 
train  that  every  night  whirleth  away  to 
Shut-Eye  Town,  bearing  unto  that  beauteous 
country  sleepy  little  girls  and  boys.  Nor 
would  she  be  content  until  I  told  her  there 
of, —  yes,  every  night  whilst  I  robed  her  in 
her  cap  and  gown  would  she  demand  of  me 
that  tale  of  Shut-Eye  Town,  and  the  won 
derful  train  that  was  to  bear  her  thither. 
Then  would  I  say  in  this  wise: — 

At  Bedtime-ville  there  is  a  train  of  cars  that  waiteth 
for  you,  my  sweet, —  for  you  and  for  other  little  ones 
that  would  go  to  quiet,  slumbrous  Shut-Eye  Town. 

But  make  no  haste;  there  is  room  for  all.  Each  hath 
a  tiny  car  that  is  snug  and  warm,  and  when  the  train 
starteth  each  car  swingeth  soothingly  this  way  and  that 
way,  this  way  and  that  way,  through  all  the  journey  of 
the  night. 

Your  little  gown  is  white  and  soft;  your  little  cap  will 
hold  those  pretty  curls  so  fast  that  they  cannot  get 
away.  Here  is  a  curl  that  peepeth  out  to  see  what  is 
going  to  happen.  Hush,  little  curl!  make  no  noise; 
we  will  let  you  peep  out  at  the  wonderful  sights,  but 
you  must  not  tell  the  others  about  it;  let  them  sleep, 
snuggled  close  together. 

1 86 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

The  locomotive  is  ready  to  start.  Can  you  not 
hear  it  ? 

"Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!  Shug-chug!"  That  is  what 
the  locomotive  is  saying,  all  to  itself.  It  knoweth  how 
pleasant  a  journey  it  is  about  to  make. 

"Shug-chug!    Shug-chug!    Shug-chug!" 

Oh,  many  a  time  hath  it  proudly  swept  over  prairie 
and  hill,  over  river  and  plain,  through  sleeping  gardens 
and  drowsy  cities,  swiftly  and  quietly,  bearing  the  little 
ones  to  the  far,  pleasant  valley  where  lieth  Shut-Eye 
Town. 

"Shug-chug!    Shug-chug!    Shug-chug!" 

So  sayeth  the  locomotive  to  itself  at  the  station  in 
Bedtime-ville;  for  it  knoweth  how  fair  and  far  a  journey 
is  before  it. 

Then  a  bell  soundeth.  Surely  my  little  one  heareth 
the  bell! 

"Ting-long!    Ting-a-long!    Ting-long!" 

So  soundeth  the  bell,  and  it  seemeth  to  invite  you  to 
sleep  and  dreams. 

"  Ting-long!     Ting-a-long!     Ting-long! " 

How  sweetly  ringeth  and  calleth  that  bell. 

"To  sleep  —  to  dreams,  O  little  lambs!"  it  seemeth 
to  call.  "  Nestle  down  close,  fold  your  hands,  and 
shut  your  dear  eyes!  We  are  off  and  away  to  Shut-Eye 
Town!  Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!  To  sleep 
— to  dreams,  O  little  cosset  lambs!  " 

And  now  the  conductor  calleth  out  in  turn.  "All 
aboard! "  he  calleth,  "  All  aboard  for  Shut-Eye  Town! " 
he  calleth  in  a  kindly  tone. 

But,  hark  ye,  dear-my-soul,  make  thou  no  haste; 
.87 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

there  is  room  for  all.  Here  is  a  cosey  little  car  for  you. 
How  like  your  cradle  it  is,  for  it  is  snug  and  warm,  and 
it  rocketh  this  way  and  that  way,  this  way  and  that  way, 
all  night  long,  and  its  pillows  caress  you  tenderly.  So  step 
into  the  pretty  nest,  and  in  it  speed  to  Shut- Eye  Town. 

"Toot!    Toot!" 

That  is  the  whistle.  It  soundeth  twice,  but  it  must 
sound  again  before  the  train  can  start.  Now  you  have 
nestled  down,  and  your  dear  hands  are  folded;  let  your 
two  eyes  be  folded,  too,  my  sweet;  for  in  a  moment 
you  shall  be  rocked  away,  and  away,  away  into  the 
golden  mists  of  Balow! 

"Ting-long!    Ting-a-long!    Ting-long!" 

"All  aboard!" 

"Toot!    Toot!    Toot!" 

And  so  my  little  golden  apple  is  off  and  away  for 
Shut-Eye  Town ! 

Slowly  moveth  the  train,  yet  faster  by  degrees.  Your 
hands  are  folded,  my  beloved,  and  your  dear  eyes  they 
are  closed;  and  yet  you  see  the  beauteous  sights  that 
skirt  the  journey  through  the  mists  of  Balow.  And  it  is 
rockaway,  rockaway,  rockaway,  that  your  speeding 
cradle  goes, —  rockaway,  rockaway,  rockaway,  through 
the  golden  glories  that  lie  in  the  path  that  leadeth  to 
Shut-Eye  Town. 

"Toot!    Toot!" 

So  crieth  the  whistle,  and  it  is  "  down-brakes,"  for 
here  we  are  at  Ginkville,  and  every  little  one  knoweth 
that  pleasant  waking-place,  where  mother  with  her 
gentle  hands  holdeth  the  gracious  cup  to  her  sleepy 
darling's  lips. 

1 88 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!"  and  off  is 
the  train  again.  And  swifter  and  swifter  it  speedeth, — 
oh,  I  am  sure  no  other  train  speedeth  half  so  swiftly! 
The  sights  my  dear  one  sees!  1  cannot  tell  of  them  — 
one  must  see  those  beauteous  sights  to  know  how  won 
derful  they  are! 

"Shug-chug!    Shug-chug!    Shug-chug!" 
On  and  on  and  on  the  locomotive  proudly  whirleth 
the  train. 

"Ting-long!  Ting-a-long!  Ting-long!" 
The  bell  calleth  anon,  but  fainter  and  evermore 
fainter;  and  fainter  and  fainter  groweth  that  other  call 
ing— "Toot!  Toot!  Toot!"— till  finally  I  know  that 
in  that  Shut-Eye  Town  afar  my  dear  one  dreameth 
the  dreams  of  Balow. 


This  was  the  bedtime  tale  which  I  was 
wont  to  tell  our  little  Mistress  Merciless,  and 
at  its  end  I  looked  upon  her  face  to  see  it 
calm  and  beautiful  in  sleep. 

Then  was  I  wont  to  kneel  beside  her  little 
bed  and  fold  my  two  hands, — thus, — and 
let  my  heart  call  to  the  host  invisible:  "O 
guardian  angels  of  this  little  child,  hold  her 
in  thy  keeping  from  all  the  perils  of  dark 
ness  and  the  night!  O  sovereign  Shepherd, 
cherish  Thy  little  lamb  and  mine,  and,  Holy 
Mother,  fold  her  to  thy  bosom  and  thy  love! 
.89 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

But  give  her  back  to  me, —  when  morning 
cometh,  restore  ye  unto  me  my  little  one!" 

But  once  she  came  not  back.  She  had 
spoken  much  of  Master  Sweetheart  and  of 
that  land  of  Ever-Plaisance  whither  he  had 
gone.  And  she  was  not  afeared  to  make 
the  journey  alone ;  so  once  upon  a  time 
when  our  little  Mistress  Merciless  bade  us 
good-by,  and  went  away  forever,  we  knew 
that  it  were  better  so;  for  she  was  lonely 
here,  and  without  her  that  far-distant  coun 
try  whither  she  journeyed  were  not  content. 
Though  our  hearts  were  like  to  break  for 
love  of  her,  we  knew  that  it  were  better  so. 

The  tale  is  told,  for  it  were  not  seemly  to 
speak  all  the  things  that  are  in  one's  heart 
when  one  hath  to  say  of  a  much-beloved 
child  whose  life  here  hath  been  shortened  so 
that,  in  God's  wisdom  and  kindness,  her  life 
shall  be  longer  in  that  garden  that  bloometh 
far  away. 

About  me  are  scattered  the  toys  she  loved, 
and  the  doll  Beautiful  hath  come  down  all 
battered  and  grim, — yet,  oh!  so  very  pre 
cious  to  me,  from  those  distant  years ;  yon 
der  fareth  the  Queen  of  Sheba  in  her  service 
190 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

as  handmaiden  unto  me  and  mine, — gaunt 
and  doleful-eyed,  yet  stanch  and  sturdy  as 
of  old.  The  garden  lieth  under  the  Christ 
mas  snow, — the  garden  where  ghosts  of 
trees  wave  their  arms  and  moan  over  the 
graves  of  flowers;  the  once  gracious  arbor 
is  crippled  now  with  the  infirmities  of  age, 
the  Siege  of  Restfulness  fast  sinketh  into 
decay,  and  long,  oh !  long  ago  did  that  bird 
Joyous  carol  forth  his  last  sweet  song  in  the 
garden  that  was  once  so  passing  fair. 

And  amid  it  all, — this  heartache  and  the 
loneliness  which  the  years  have  brought, — 
cometh  my  Christmas  gift  to-day :  the  solace 
of  a  vision  of  that  country  whither  she  — 
our  little  Mistress  Merciless  —  hath  gone;  a 
glimpse  of  that  far-off  land  of  Ever-Plaisance. 


191 


THE   PLATONIC   BASSOON 


A,L  who  knew  the  beautiful  and  accom 
plished  Aurora  wondered  why  she  did 
not  marry.  She  had  now  reached  the  ma 
ture  age  of  twenty-five  years,  and  was  in 
full  possession  of  those  charms  which  are 
estimated  by  all  men  as  the  choicest  gifts  a 
woman  can  possess.  You  must  know  that 
Aurora  had  a  queenly  person,  delightful 
manners,  an  extensive  education,  and  an 
amiable  disposition;  and,  being  the  only 
child  of  wealthy  parents,  she  should  not 
have  lacked  the  one  thing  that  seemed  nec 
essary  to  perfect  and  round  out  her  useful 
ness  as  a  member  of  society. 

The  truth  was,  Aurora  did  not  fancy  the 

male  sex.  She  regarded  men  as  conveniences 

that  might  come  handy  at  times  when  an 

escort  to  the  theatre  was  required,  or  when 

>95 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

a  partner  in  a  dance  was  demanded,  when 
a  fan  was  to  be  picked  up,  or  when  an  er 
rand  was  to  be  run ;  but  the  idea  of  marry 
ing  any  man  was  as  distasteful  to  Aurora  as 
the  proposition  to  marry  a  hat-rack  or  any 
other  piece  of  household  furniture  would 
have  been. 

The  secret  of  this  strange  aversion  might 
have  been  traced  to  Aurora's  maiden  aunt 
Eliza,  who  had  directed  Aurora's  education, 
and  had  from  her  niece's  early  youth  in 
stilled  into  Aurora's  mind  very  distinct  no 
tions  touching  the  masculine  sex. 

Aurora  had  numerous  admirers  among  the 
young  gentlemen  who  moved  in  the  same 
elevated  social  circle  as  herself  and  fre 
quently  called  at  her  father's  house.  Any 
one  of  them  would  gladly  have  made  her 
his  wife,  and  many  of  them  had  expressed 
a  tender  yearning  for  her  life  companionship. 
But  Aurora  was  quick  to  recognize  in  each 
suitor  some  objectionable  trait  or  habit  or 
feature  which  her  aunt  Eliza  had  told  about, 
and  which  imperatively  prohibited  a  con 
tinuance  of  the  young  gentleman's  attentions. 

Aurora's  father  could  not  understand  why 
196 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

his  daughter  was  so  hypercritical  and  fas 
tidious  in  a  matter  which  others  of  her  sex 
were  so  apt  to  accept  with  charitable  eyes. 
"They  are  bright,  honest  fellows,"  he  urged, 
"worthy  of  any  girl's  love.  Receive  their 
advances  kindly,  my  child,  and  having 
chosen  one  among  them,  you  will  be  the 
happier  for  it." 

"Never  mind,  Aurora,"  said  Aunt  Eliza. 
' '  Men  are  all  alike.  They  show  their  mean 
ness  in  different  ways,  but  the  same  spirit 
of  evil  is  in  'em  all.  1  have  lived  in  this 
world  forty-six  years,  and  during  that  time 
I  have  found  men  to  be  the  most  unfeeling 
and  most  untrustworthy  of  brutes." 

So  it  was  that  at  the  age  of  twenty-five 
Aurora  was  found  beautiful,  amiable,  and 
accomplished,  but  thoroughly  and  hope 
lessly  a  man-hater.  And  it  was  about  this 
time  that  she  became  involved  in  that  un 
happy  affair  which  even  to  this  day  is  talked 
of  by  those  who  knew  her  then. 

On  the  evening  of  a  certain  day  Aurora 
attended  the  opera  with  her  father  and  mo 
ther  and  Morgan  Magnus,  the  young  banker. 
Their  box  at  the  opera  was  so  close  to  the 

'97 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

orchestra  that  by  reaching  out  her  hand  Au 
rora  could  have  touched  several  of  the  in 
struments.  Now  it  happened  that  a  bas 
soon  was  the  instrument  nearest  the  box 
in  which  Aurora  sat,  and  it  was  natural 
therefore  that  the  bassoon  attracted  more 
of  Aurora's  attention  than  any  other  instru 
ment  in  the  orchestra.  If  you  have  never 
beheld  or  heard  a  bassoon  you  are  to  un 
derstand  that  it  is  an  instrument  of  wood, 
of  considerable  more  length  than  breadth, 
provided  with  numerous  stops  and  keys, 
and  capable  of  producing  an  infinite  variety 
of  tones,  ranging  from  the  depth  of  lugu- 
briousness  to  the  highest  pitch  of  vivacity. 
This  particular  bassoon  was  of  an  appear 
ance  that  bordered  upon  the  somber,  the 
polished  white  of  his  keys  emphasizing  the 
solemn  black  of  his  long,  willowy  body. 
And,  as  he  loomed  up  above  the  serene  bald 
head  of  the  musician  that  played  him,  Au 
rora  thought  she  had  never  seen  a  more 
distingue  object. 

The  opera  was  "II  Trovatore,"  a  work 
well  calculated  to  call  in  play  all  that  peculiar 
pathos  of  which  the  bassoon   is   capable. 
198 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

When  Aurora  saw  the  player  raise  the  bas 
soon  and  apply  the  tiny  tube  thereunto  ap 
pertaining  to  his  lips,  and  heard  him  evoke 
from  the  innermost  recesses  of  the  bassoon 
tones  that  were  fairly  reeking  with  tears  and 
redolent  of  melancholy,  she  felt  a  curious 
sentiment  of  pity  awakened  in  her  bosom. 

Aurora  had  seen  many  an  agonized  swain 
at  her  feet,  and  had  heard  his  impassioned 
pleadings  for  mercy;  she  had  perused  many 
a  love  missive  wherein  her  pity  was  elo 
quently  implored,  but  never  had  she  expe 
rienced  the  tender,  melting  sentiment  that 
percolated  through  her  breast  when  she 
heard  the  bassoon  mingling  his  melancholy 
tones  with  Manrico's  plaints.  The  tears 
welled  up  into  Aurora's  eyes,  her  bosom 
heaved  convulsively,  and  the  most  subtile 
emotions  thrilled  her  soul. 

In  vain  did  young  Magnus,  the  banker, 
seek  to  learn  the  cause  of  her  agitation,  and 
it  seemed  like  a  cruel  mockery  when  Auro 
ra's  mother  said:  "You  must  remember, 
dear,  that  it  is  not  real;  it  is  only  a  play." 

After  this  memorable  evening,  wherein  an 
unexpected  and  indescribable  sweetness 
199 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

had  crept  into  the  young  woman's  life, 
Aurora  more  frequently  insisted  upon  going 
to  the  opera.  A  strange  fascination  attracted 
her  thither,  and  on  each  succeeding  evening 
she  found  some  new  beauty  in  the  bassoon, 
some  new  phase  in  his  kaleidoscopic  char 
acter  to  wonder  at,  some  new  accomplish 
ment  to  admire.  On  one  occasion  —  it  was 
at  the  opera  bouffe  —  this  musical  prodigy 
exhibited  a  playfulness  and  an  exuberance 
of  wit  and  humor  that  Aurora  had  never 
dreamed  of.  He  ran  the  gamut  of  vocal 
conceit,  and  the  polyglot  fertility  of  his  fancy 
simply  astounded  his  rapt  auditor.  She  was 
dazed,  enchanted,  spellbound.  So  here  we 
find  the  fair  Aurora  passing  from  the  con 
dition  of  pity  into  the  estate  of  admiration. 

And  now,  having  first  conceived  a  won 
drous  pity  for  the  bassoon,  and  then  having 
become  imbued  with  an  admiration  of  his 
wit,  sarcasm,  badinage,  repartee,  and  hu 
mor,  it  followed  naturally  and  logically  that 
Aurora  should  fall  desperately  in  love  with 
him;  for  pity  and  admiration  are  but  the 
forerunners  of  the  grand  passion. 

"Aunt  Eliza,  "said  Aurora  one  day,  "you 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

have  instilled  into  my  sensitive  nature  an 
indelible  aversion  to  men,  compared  with 
which  all  such  deleble  passions  as  affection 
and  love  are  as  inconsequential  as  summer 
zephyrs.  I  believe  men  to  be  by  nature  and 
practice  gross,  vulgar,  sensual,  and  un 
worthy  ;  and  from  this  opinion  I  feel  that  I 
shall  never  recede.  Yet  such  a  clinging  and 
fragile  thing  is  woman's  heart  that  it  must 
needs  have  some  object  about  which  it  may 
twine,  even  as  the  gentle  ivy  twines  about 
the  oak.  Now,  as  you  know,  some  women 
there  are  who,  convinced  of  the  utter  worth- 
lessness  of  the  opposite  sex,  dedicate  their 
lives  to  the  adoration  of  some  art  or  science, 
lavishing  thereupon  that  love  which  women 
less  prudent  squander  upon  base  men  and 
ungrateful  children ;  in  the  painting  of  pic 
tures,  devotion  to  the  drama,  the  cultivation 
of  music,  pursuit  of  trade,  or  the  exclusive 
attention  to  a  profession,  some  women  find 
the  highest  pleasure.  But  you  and  I,  dear 
aunt,  who  are  directed  by  even  higher  and 
purer  motives  than  these  women,  scorn  the 
pursuits  of  the  arts  and  sciences,  the  profes 
sions  and  trades,  and  lay  our  hearts  as  will- 
so  i 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

ing  sacrifices  upon  the  altars  of  a  tabby  cat 
and  a  bassoon.  What  could  be  purer  or 
more  exalted  than  a  love  of  that  kind  ?  " 

Having  uttered  this  eloquent  preface,  which 
was,  indeed,  characteristic  of  the  fair  crea 
ture,  Aurora  told  Aunt  Eliza  of  the  bassoon, 
and  as  she  spoke  of  his  versatile  accom 
plishments  and  admirable  qualities  her  eyes 
glowed  with  an  unwonted  animation,  and 
a  carmine  hue  suffused  her  beautiful  cheeks. 
It  was  plain  that  Aurora  was  deeply  in  love, 
and  Aunt  Eliza  was  overjoyed. 

"It  is  gratifying,"  said  Aunt  Eliza,  "to 
find  that  my  teachings  promise  such  happy 
results,  that  the  seeds  I  have  so  carefully 
sown  already  show  signs  of  a  glorious  frui 
tion.  Now,  while  it  is  true  that  I  cannot 
conceive  of  a  happier  love  than  that  which 
exists  between  my  own  dear  tabby  cat  and 
myself,  it  is  also  true  that  I  recognize  your 
bassoon  as  an  object  so  much  worthier  of 
adoration  than  mankind  in  general,  and  your 
male  acquaintances  in  particular,  that  I  most 
heartily  felicitate  you  upon  the  idol  you  have 
chosen  for  your  worship.  Bassoons  do  not 
smoke,  nor  chew  tobacco,  nor  swear,  nor 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

bet  on  horse-races,  nor  play  billiards,  nor  do 
any  of  those  horrid  things  which  constitute 
the  larger  part  of  a  man's  ambitions  and  pur 
suits.  You  have  acted  wisely,  my  dear, 
and  heaven  grant  you  may  be  as  happy  in 
bis  love  as  I  am  in  tabby's." 

"I  feel  that  I  shall  be,"  murmured  Au 
rora;  "  already  my  bassoon  is  very  precious 
to  me." 

With  the  dawn  of  this  first  passion  a  new 
motive  seemed  to  come  into  Aurora's  life  — 
a  gentle  melancholy,  a  subdued  sentiment 
whose  accompaniments  were  sighings  and 
day-dreamings  and  solitary  tears  and  swoon- 
ings. 

Quite  naturally  Aurora  sought  Aunt  Eliza's 
society  more  than  ever  now,  and  her  con 
versation  and  thoughts  were  always  on  the 
bassoon.  It  was  very  beautiful. 

But  late  one  night  Aurora  burst  into  Aunt 
Eliza's  room  and  threw  herself  upon  Aunt 
Eliza's  bed,  sobbing  bitterly.  Aunt  Eliza 
was  inexpressibly  shocked,  and  under  a  sud 
den  impulse  of  horror  the  tabby  sprang  to 
her  feet,  arched  her  back,  bristled  her  tail, 
and  uttered  monosyllabics  of  astonishment. 
203 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

"  Why,  Aurora,  what  ails  you  ?  "  inquired 
Aunt  Eliza,  kindly. 

"Oh,  auntie,  my  heart  is  broken,  I  know 
it  is,"  wailed  Aurora. 

"Come,  come,  my  child,"  said  Aunt 
Eliza,  soothingly,  "don't  take  on  so.  Tell 
auntie  what  ails  you." 

"  He  was  harsh  and  cruel  to  me  to-night, 
and  ohl  I  loved  him  so! "  moaned  Aurora. 

"A  lovers'  quarrel,  eh?"  thought  Aunt 
Eliza;  and  she  got  up,  slipped  her  wrapper 
on,  and  brewed  Aurora  a  big  bowl  of  bone- 
set  tea.  Oh,  how  nice  and  bitter  and  fra 
grant  it  was,  and  how  Aunt  Eliza's  nostrils 
sniffed,  and  how  her  eyes  sparkled  as  she 
sipped  the  grateful  beverage. 

"There,  drink  that,  my  dear,"  said  Aunt 
Eliza,  "and  then  tell  me  all  about  it." 

Aurora  quaffed  the  bowl  of  boneset  tea, 
and  the  wholesome  draught  seemed  to  give 
her  fortitude,  for  now  she  told  Aunt  Eliza 
the  whole  story.  It  seems  that  Aurora  had 
been  to  the  opera  as  usual,  not  for  the  pur 
pose  of  hearing  and  seeing  the  performance, 
but  simply  for  the  sake  of  being  where  the 
beloved  bassoon  was.  The  opera  was  Wag- 
204 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

ner's  "Die  Walkiire,"  and  the  part  played 
by  the  bassoon  in  the  orchestration  was  one 
of  conspicuous  importance.  Fully  appreciat 
ing  his  importance,  the  bassoon  conducted 
himself  with  brutal  arrogance  and  supercili 
ousness  on  this  occasion.  His  whole  nature 
seemed  changed;  his  tones  were  harsh  and 
discordant,  and  with  malevolent  obstinacy 
he  led  all  the  other  instruments  in  the  or 
chestra  through  a  seemingly  endless  series 
of  musical  pyrotechnics.  There  never  was 
a  more  remarkable  exhibition  of  stubborn 
ness.  When  the  violins  and  the  'cellos,  the 
hautboys  and  the  flutes,  the  cornets  and  the 
trombones,  said  "Come,  let  us  work  to 
gether  in  G  minor,"  or  "Let  us  do  this  pas 
sage  in  B  flat,"  the  bassoon  would  lead  off 
with  a  wild  shriek  in  D  sharp  or  some  other 
foreign  key,  and  maintain  it  so  lustily  that 
the  other  instruments  —  e.  g.,  the  violins, 
the  'cellos,  the  hautboys,  and  all  —  were 
compelled  to  back,  switch,  and  wheel  into 
the  bassoon's  lead  as  best  they  could. 

But  no  sooner  had  they  come  into  harmony 
than  the  bassoon  —  oh,  melancholy  perver 
sity  of  that  instrument — would  strike  off 
205 


THE  HOLY   CROSS 

into  another  key  with  a  ribald  snicker  or 
coarse  guffaw,  causing  more  turbulence  and 
another  stampede.  And  this  preposterous 
condition  of  affairs  was  kept  up  the  whole 
evening,  the  bassoon  seeming  to  take  a 
fiendish  delight  in  his  riotous,  brutal  con 
duct. 

At  first  Aurora  was  mortified;  then  her 
mortification  deepened  into  chagrin.  In  the 
hope  of  touching  his  heart  she  bestowed 
upon  him  a  look  of  such  tender  supplication 
that,  had  he  not  been  the  most  callous  crea 
ture  in  the  world,  he  must  have  melted  un 
der  it.  To  his  eternal  shame,  let  it  be  said, 
the  bassoon  remained  as  impervious  to  her 
beseeching  glances  as  if  he  had  been  a  sphinx 
or  a  rhinoceros.  In  fact,  Aurora's  supplicat 
ing  eyes  seemed  to  instigate  him  to  further 
and  greater  madness,  for  after  that  he  became 
still  more  riotous,  and  at  many  times  during 
the  evening  the  crisis  in  the  orchestra  threat 
ened  anarchy  and  general  disintegration. 

Aurora's  humiliation  can  be  imagined  by 
those  only  who  have  experienced  a  like  bit 
terness —  the  bitterness  of  awakening  to  a 
realization  of  the  cruelty  of  love.  Aurora 
206 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

loved  the  bassoon  tenderly,  deeply,  absorb 
ingly.  The  sprightliness  of  his  lighter  moods, 
no  less  than  the  throbbing  pathos  of  his 
sadder  moments,  had  won  her  heart.  She 
had  given  him  her  love  unreservedly,  she 
fairly  worshipped  him,  and  now  she  awak 
ened,  as  it  were,  from  a  golden  dream,  to 
find  her  idol  clay!  It  was  very  sad.  Yet 
who  that  has  loved  either  man  or  bassoon 
does  not  know  this  bitterness  ? 

"He  will  be  gentler  hereafter,"  said  Aunt 
Eliza,  encouragingly.  "You  must  always 
remember  that  we  should  be  charitable  and 
indulgent  with  those  we  love.  Who  knows 
why  the  bassoon  was  harsh  and  wayward 
and  imperious  to-night  ?  Let  us  not  judge 
him  till  we  have  heard  the  whys  and  where 
fores.  He  may  have  been  ill;  depend  upon 
it,  my  dear,  he  had  cause  for  his  conduct." 

Aunt  Eliza's  prudent  words  were  a  great 
solace  to  Aurora.  And  she  forgave  the  bas 
soon  all  the  pain  he  had  inflicted  when  she 
went  to  the  opera  the  next  night  and  heard 
him  in  "I  Puritani,"  a  work  in  which  the 
grand  virility  of  his  nature,  its  vigor  and 
force,  came  out  with  telling  effect.  There 
207 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

was  not  a  trace  of  the  insolence  he  had  man 
ifested  in  "Die  Walkiire,"  nor  of  the  hu 
morous  antics  he  had  displayed  in  "La 
Grande  Duchesse  " ;  divested  of  all  charlatan 
ism,  he  was  now  a  magnificent,  sonorous, 
manly  bassoon,  and  you  may  depend  upon 
it  Aurora  was  more  in  love  with  him  than 
ever. 

It  was  about  this  time  that,  perceiving  a 
marked  change  in  his  daughter's  appearance 
and  demeanor,  Aurora's  father  began  to  ques 
tion  her  mother  about  it  all,  and  that  good 
lady  at  last  made  bold  to  tell  the  old  gentle 
man  the  whole  truth  of  the  matter,  which 
was  simply  that  Aurora  cherished  a  passion 
for  the  bassoon.  Now  the  father  was  an  ex 
ceedingly  matter-of-fact,  old-fashioned  man, 
who  possessed  not  the  least  bit  of  senti 
ment,  and  when  he  heard  that  his  only 
child  had  fallen  in  love  with  a  bassoon,  his 
anger  was  very  great.  He  summoned  Au 
rora  into  his  presence,  and  regarded  her  with 
an  austere  countenance. 

"Girl,"  he  said,  in  icy  tones,  "is  it  true 
that  you  have  been  flirting  with  a  bas 
soon?" 

208 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"Father,"  replied  Aurora,  with  dignity, 
"  I  have  never  flirted  with  anybody,  and  you 
grievously  wrong  the  bassoon  when  you 
intimated  that  he,  too,  is  capable  of  such 
frivolity." 

"It  is  nevertheless  true,"  roared  the  old 
gentleman,  "that  you  have  conceived  a  pas 
sion  for  this  bassoon,  and  have  cherished  it 
clandestinely." 

"It  is  true,  father,  that  I  love  the  bas 
soon,"  said  Aurora;  "  it  is  true  that  I  admire 
his  wit,  vivacity,  sentiment,  soul,  force, 
power,  and  manliness,  but  I  have  loved  in 
secret.  We  have  never  met;  he  may  know 
I  love  him,  and  he  may  reciprocate  my  love, 
but  he  has  never  spoken  to  me  nor  I  to  him, 
so  there  is  nothing  clandestine  in  the  af 
fair." 

"Oh,  my  child!  my  child!"  sobbed  the 
old  man,  breaking  down;  "how  could  you 
love  a  bassoon,  when  so  many  eligible  young 
men  are  suitors  for  your  hand  ?  " 

"Don't  mention  him  in  the  same  breath 

with  those  horrid  creatures!  "  cried  Aurora, 

indignantly.     "What  scent  of  tobacco  or 

odor  of  wines  has  ever  profaned  the  purity 

209 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

of  his  balmy  breath  ?  What  does  he  know 
of  billiards,  of  horse-racing,  of  actresses,  and 
those  other  features  of  brutal  men's  lives  ? 
Father,  he  is  pure  and  good  and  exalted; 
seek  not  to  debase  him  by  naming  him  in 
the  category  of  man !  " 

"These  are  Eliza's  teachings!"  shrieked 
the  old  gentleman;  and  off  he  bundled  to 
vent  his  wrath  on  the  maiden  aunt.  But  it 
was  little  satisfaction  he  got  from  Aunt 
Eliza. 

After  that  the  old  gentleman  kept  a  strict 
eye  on  Aurora,  and  very  soon  he  became 
satisfied  of  two  things :  First,  that  Aurora 
was  sincerely  in  love  with  the  bassoon ;  and, 
second,  that  the  bassoon  cared  nothing  for 
Aurora.  That  Aurora  loved  the  bassoon 
was  evidenced  by  her  demeanor  when  in 
his  presence  —  her  steadfast  eyes,  her  parted 
lips,  her  heaving  bosom,  her  piteous  sighs, 
her  flushed  cheeks,  and  her  varying  emotions 
as  his  tones  changed,  bore  unimpeachable 
testimony  to  the  sincerity  of  her  passion. 
That  the  bassoon  did  not  care  for  Aurora 
was  proved  by  his  utter  disregard  of  her 
feelings,  for  though  he  might  be  tender  this 

2IO 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

moment  he  was  harsh  the  next  —  though 
pleading  now  he  spurned  her  anon  ;  and  so, 
variable  and  fickle  and  false  as  the  winds, 
he  kept  Aurora  in  misery  and  hysterics  about 
half  the  time. 

One  morning  the  old  gentleman  entered 
the  theatre  while  the  orchestra  was  rehears 
ing. 

"Who  plays  the  bassoon  ?"  he  asked,  in 
an  imperative  tone. 

"  Ich ! "  said  a  man  with  a  bald  head  and 
gold  spectacles. 

"Your  name?"  demanded  the  old  gen 
tleman. 

"Otto  Baumgarten,"  replied  he  of  the  bald 
head  and  gold  spectacles. 

"Then,  Otto  Baumgarten,  "said  the  father, 
"I  will  give  you  one  hundred  dollars  for 
your  bassoon." 

"  Mein  Gott !  "  said  Herr  Baumgarten, "  dat 
bassoon  gost  me  not  half  so  much  fon  dot!  " 

"Never  mind !"  replied  the  old  gentle 
man.  "Take  the  money  and  give  me  the 
bassoon." 

Herr  Baumgarten  did  not  hesitate  a  mo 
ment.  He  clutched  at  the  gold  pieces,  and 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

while  he  counted  them  Aurora's  father  was 
hastening  up  the  street  with  the  bassoon 
under  his  arm.  Aurora  saw  him  coming, 
and  she  recognized  the  idol  of  her  soul;  his 
silver-plated  keys  were  not  to  be  mistaken. 
With  a  cry  of  joy  she  met  her  father  in  the 
hallway,  snatched  the  bassoon  to  her  heart, 
and  covered  him  with  kisses. 

"  He  makes  no  answer  to  your  protesta 
tions!"  said  her  father.  "Come,  give  over 
a  love  that  is  hopeless;  cast  aside  this  bas 
soon,  who  is  hollow  at  heart,  and  whose  af 
fection  at  best  is  only  platonic!  " 

"You  speak  blasphemies,  father,"  cried 
Aurora,  "and  you  yourself  shall  hear  how 
he  loves  me,  for  when  I  but  put  my  lips  to 
this  slender  mouthpiece  there  shall  issue  from 
my  worshipped  bassoon  tones  of  such  inef 
fable  tenderness  that  even  you  shall  be  con 
vinced  that  my  passion  is  reciprocated." 

With  these  words  Aurora  glued  her  beau 
teous  lips  to  the  slender  blowpipe  of  the 
bassoon,  and,  having  inflated  her  lungs  to 
their  capacity,  breathed  into  it  a  respiration 
that  seemed  to  come  from  her  very  soul. 
But  no  sound  issued  from  the  cold,  hollow, 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

unresponsive  bassoon.  Aurora  repeated  the 
effort  with  increased  vigor.  There  came  no 
answer  at  all. 

' '  Aha !  "  laughed  her  father.  ' '  I  told  you 
so;  he  loves  you  not." 

But  then,  with  a  last  superhuman  effort, 
Aurora  made  her  third  attempt;  her  eyeballs 
started  from  their  sockets,  big,  blue  veins 
and  cords  stood  out  on  her  lovely  neck,  and 
all  the  force  and  vigor  of  her  young  life 
seemed  to  go  out  through  her  pursed  lips 
into  the  bassoon's  system.  And  then,  oh 
then!  as  if  to  mock  her  idolatry  and  sound 
the  death  knell  of  her  unhappy  love,  the 
bassoon  recoiled  and  emitted  a  tone  so  harsh, 
so  discordant,  so  supernatural,  that  even  Au 
rora's  father  drew  back  in  horror. 

And  lo!  hearing  that  supernatural  sound 
that  told  her  of  the  hopelessness  of  love, 
Aurora  dropped  the  hollow,  mocking  scoffer, 
clutched  spasmodically  at  her  heart,  and, 
with  an  agonizing  shriek,  fell  lifeless  to  the 
floor. 


JJataiian  fold 


HAWAIIAN   FOLK  TALES 


THE   EEL-KING 

THERE  was  a  maiden  named  Liliokani 
whose  father  was  a  fisherman.  But 
the  maiden  liked  not  her  father's  employ 
ment,  for  she  believed  it  to  be  an  offence 
against  Atua,  the  all-god,  to  deprive  any 
animal  of  that  life  which  Atua  had  breathed 
into  it.  And  this  was  pleasing  unto  Atua, 
and  he  blessed  Liliokani  with  exceeding 
beauty ;  no  other  eyes  were  so  large,  dark, 
and  tender  as  hers;  the  braids  of  her  long, 
soft  hair  fell  like  silken  seagrass  upon  her 
shoulders;  she  was  tall  and  graceful  as  the 
palm,  and  her  voice  was  the  voice  of  the 
sea  when  the  sea  cradles  the  moonlight  and 
sings  it  to  sleep. 

Full  many  kings'  sons  came  wooing  Lilio- 
217 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

kani,  and  chiefs  renowned  in  war;  and  with 
others  came  Tatatao,  that  was  a  mighty 
hunter  of  hares  and  had  compassed  famous 
hardships.  For  those  men  that  delight  in 
adventure  and  battle  are  most  pleasantly 
minded  to  gentle  women,  for  thus  capri 
ciously  hath  Atua,  the  all-god,  ordained. 
But  Liliokani  had  no  ear  to  the  wooing  of 
these  men,  and  the  fisherman's  daughter 
was  a  virgin  when  Mimi  came. 

Mimi  was  king  of  the  eels,  and  Atua  had 
given  him  eternal  life  and  the  power  to 
change  his  shape  when  it  pleased  him  to 
issue  from  the  water  and  walk  the  earth.  It 
befell  that  this  eel-king,  Mimi,  beheld  Lilio 
kani  upon  a  time  as  he  swam  the  little  river 
near  her  father's  abode,  and  he  saw  that  she 
was  exceeding  fair  and  he  heard  the  soft,  sad 
sea-tone  in  her  voice.  So  for  many  days 
Mimi  frequented  those  parts  and  grew  more 
and  more  in  love  with  the  maiden. 

Upon  a  certain  day,  while  she  helped  her 
father  to  mend  his  nets,  Liliokani  saw  a 
young  man  of  goodly  stature  and  handsome 
face  approaching,  and  to  herself  she  said : 
"  Surely  if  ever  I  be  tempted  to  wed  it  shall 
218 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

be  with  this  young  man,  whose  like  I  have 
never  before  known."  But  she  had  no 
thought  that  it  was  Mimi,  the  eel-king,  who 
in  this  changed  shape  now  walked  the 
earth. 

Sweetly  he  made  obeisance  and  pleasant 
was  his  discourse  with  the  fisherman  and  his 
daughter,  and  he  told  them  many  things  of 
his  home,  which  he  said  was  many  kumes 
distant  from  that  spot.  Though  he  spake 
mostly  to  the  old  man,  his  eyes  were  fixed 
upon  Liliokani,  and,  after  the  fashion  of  her 
sex,  that  maiden  presently  knew  that  he  had 
great  love  unto  her.  Many  days  after  that 
came  Mimi  to  hold  discourse  with  them, 
and  they  had  joy  of  his  coming,  for  in  sooth 
he  was  of  fair  countenance  and  sweet  ad 
dress,  and  the  fisherman,  being  a  single- 
minded  and  a  simple  man,  had  no  suspicion 
of  the  love  between  Mimi  and  Liliokani. 
But  once  Mimi  said  to  Liliokani  in  such  a 
voice  as  the  sea-wind  hath  to  the  maiden 
palm-trees:  "Brown  maiden  mine,  let  thy 
door  be  unlatched  this  night,  and  I  will  come 
to  thee." 

So  the  door  was  not  latched  that  night 
219 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

and  Mimi  went  in  unto  her,  and  they  two 
were  together  and  alone. 

"What  meaneth  that  moaning  of  the 
sea  ?  "  asked  Liliokani. 

"The  sea  chanteth  our  bridal  anthem,"  he 
answered. 

"And  what  sad  music  cometh  from  the 
palms  to-night  ?"  she  asked. 

"They  sing  soft  and  low  of  our  wedded 
love,"  he  answered. 

But  Liliokani  apprehended  evil,  and,  al 
though  she  spake  no  more  of  it  at  that  time, 
a  fear  of  trouble  was  in  her  heart. 

Now  Atua,  the  all-god,  was  exceeding 
wroth  at  this  thing,  and  in  grievous  anger 
he  beheld  how  that  every  night  the  door 
was  unlatched  and  Mimi  went  in  unto  Lilio 
kani.  And  Atua  set  about  to  do  vengeance, 
and  Atua's  wrath  is  sure  and  very  dreadful. 

There  was  a  night  when  Mimi  did  not 
come;  the  door  was  unlatched  and  the 
breath  of  Liliokani  was  as  the  perfume  of 
flowers  and  of  spices  commingled;  yet  he 
came  not.  Then  Liliokani  wept  and  un- 
braided  her  hair  and  cried  as  a  widow  crieth, 
and  she  thought  that  Mimi  had  found  an- 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

other  pleasanter  than  she  unto  him.  So, 
upon  the  next  night,  she  latched  the  door. 
But  in  the  middle  of  the  night,  when  the  fire 
was  kindled  in  the  island  moon,  there  was  a 
gentle  tapping  at  the  door,  and  Mimi  called 
to  her.  And  when  she  had  unlatched  the 
door  she  began  to  chide  him,  but  he  stopped 
her  chiding,  and  with  great  groaning  he  took 
her  to  his  breast,  and  she  knew  by  the  beat 
ing  of  his  heart  that  evil  had  come  upon 
him. 

Then  Mimi  told  her  who  he  was  and  how 
wroth  the  all-god  was  because  the  eel-king, 
forgetful  of  his  immortality  and  neglectful  of 
his  domain,  loved  the  daughter  of  a  mortal. 

"Forswear  me,  then,"  quoth  Liliokani, 
"forswear  me,  and  come  not  hither  again, 
and  the  anger  of  the  all-god  shall  be  ap 
peased." 

"  It  is  not  to  lie  to  Atua,"  answered  Mimi. 
"The  all-god  readeth  every  heart  and  know- 
eth  every  thought.  How  can  I,  that  love 
thee  only,  forswear  thee?  More  just  and 
terrible  would  be  Atua's  wrath  for  that  lie 
to  him  and  that  wrong  to  thee  and  to  my 
self.  Brown  maiden,  I  go  back  into  the  sea 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

and  from  thee  forever,  bearing  with  me  a 
love  for  thee  which  even  the  all-god's  anger 
cannot  chill." 

So  he  kissed  her  for  the  last  time  and  bade 
her  a  last  farewell,  and  then  he  went  from 
that  door  down  to  the  water's  edge  and  into 
his  domain.  And  Liliokani  made  great  moan 
and  her  heart  was  like  to  break.  But  the 
sea  was  placid  as  a  hearthstone  and  the 
palms  lay  asleep  in  the  sky  that  night,  for  it 
was  Atua's  will  that  the  woman  should  suf 
fer  alone. 

In  the  middle  of  the  next  night  a  mighty 
tempest  arose.  The  clouds  reached  down 
and  buffeted  the  earth  and  sea,  and  the 
winds  and  the  waters  cried  out  in  anger 
against  each  other  and  smote  each  other. 
Above  the  tumult  Atua's  voice  was  heard. 
"Arise,  Liliokani,"  quoth  that  voice,  "and 
with  thy  father's  stone  hatchet  smite  off  the 
head  of  the  fish  that  lieth  upon  the  threshold 
of  the  door." 

Then  Liliokani  arose  with  fear  and  trem 
bling  and  went  to  the  door,  and  there,  on  the 
threshold,  lay  a  monster  eel  whose  body 
had  been  floated  thither  by  the  flood  and 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

the  tempest.  With  her  father's  stone  hatchet 
she  smote  off  the  eel's  head,  and  the  head 
fell  into  the  hut,  but  the  long,  dead  body 
floated  back  with  the  flood  into  the  sea  and 
was  seen  no  more.  Then  the  tempest 
abated,  and  with  the  morning  came  the 
sun's  light  and  its  tender  warmth.  And  at 
the  earliest  moment  Liliokani  took  the  eel's 
head  secretly  and  buried  it  with  much  sor 
row  and  weeping,  for  the  eyes  within  that 
lifeless  head  were  Mimi's  eyes,  and  Liliokani 
knew  that  this  thing  was  come  of  the  all- 
god's  wrath. 

It  was  her  wont  to  go  each  day  and  make 
moan  over  the  spot  where  she  had  hid  this 
vestige  of  her  love,  and  presently  Atua  pitied 
her,  for  Atua  loveth  his  children  upon  this 
earth,  even  though  they  sin  most  grievously. 
So,  by  and  by,  Liliokani  saw  that  two  green 
leaves  were  sprouting  from  the  earth,  and 
in  a  season  these  two  leaves  became  twin 
stalks  and  grew  into  trees,  the  like  of  which 
had  never  before  been  seen  upon  earth.  And 
Liliokani  lived  to  see  and  to  taste  the  fruit 
of  these  twin  trees  that  sprung  from  Mimi's 
brain  —  the  red  cocoanut  and  the  white 
223 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

cocoanut,  whereof  all  men  have  eaten  since 
that  time.  And  all  folk  hold  that  fruit  in 
sweet  estimation,  for  it  cometh  from  the  love 
that  a  god  had  unto  a  mortal  woman,  and 
mortality  is  love  and  love  is  immortality. 

Atua  forgot  not  Liliokani  when  the  skies 
opened  to  her;  she  liveth  forever  in  the  star 
that  looketh  only  upon  this  island,  and  it  is 
her  tender  grace  that  nourishes  the  infant 
cocoas  and  maketh  the  elder  ones  fruitful. 
Meanwhile  no  woman  that  dwelleth  upon 
earth  hath  satisfaction  in  tasting  the  flesh  of 
eels,  for  a  knowledge  of  Mimi's  love  and 
sacrifice  hath  been  subtly  implanted  by  Atua, 
the  all-god,  in  every  woman's  breast. 


THE  MOON   LADY 

Once  there  were  four  maidens  who  were 
the  daughters  of  Talakoa,  and  they  were 
so  very  beautiful  that  their  fame  spread 
through  the  universe.  The  oldest  of  these 
maidens  was  named  Kaulualua,  and  it  is  of 
her  that  it  is  to  tell  this  tale. 
224 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

One  day  while  Kaulualua  was  combing 
her  hair  she  saw  a  tall,  fair  man  fishing  in 
the  rivulet,  and  he  was  a  stranger  to  her. 
Never  before  had  she  seen  so  fair  a  man, 
though  in  very  sooth  she  had  been  wooed 
of  many  king's  sons  and  of  chiefs  from  every 
part  of  the  earth.  Then  she  called  to  her 
three  sisters  and  asked  them  his  name,  but 
they  could  not  answer;  this,  however,  they 
knew  —  he  was  of  no  country  whereof  they 
had  heard  tell,  for  he  was  strangely  clad  and 
he  was  of  exceeding  fair  complexion  and  his 
stature  surpassed  that  of  other  men. 

The  next  day  these  maidens  saw  this  same 
tall,  fair  man,  but  he  no  longer  fished  in  the 
rivulet;  he  hunted  the  hares  and  was  pass 
ing  skilful  thereat,  so  that  the  maidens  ad 
mired  him  not  only  for  his  exceeding  come 
liness  but  also  for  his  skill  as  a  huntsman,  for 
surely  there  was  no  hare  that  could  escape 
his  vigilance  and  the  point  of  his  arrow. 
So  when  Talakoa,  their  father,  came  that 
evening  the  maidens  told  him  of  this  stran 
ger,  and  he  wondered  who  he  was  and 
whence  he  fared.  Awaking  from  sleep  in 
the  middle  of  that  night,  Kaulualua  saw  that 
225 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

the  stars  shone  with  rare  brilliancy,  and  that 
by  their  light  a  man  was  gazing  upon  her 
through  the  window.  And  she  saw  that 
the  man  was  the  tall,  fair  man  of  whom  it 
has  been  spoken.  So  she  uttered  no  cry, 
but  feigned  that  she  slept,  for  she  saw  that 
there  was  love  in  the  tall,  fair  man's  eyes, 
and  it  pleaseth  a  maiden  to  be  looked  upon 
in  that  wise. 

When  it  was  morning  this  tall,  fair  man 
came  and  entered  that  house  and  laid  a  fish 
and  a  hare  upon  the  hearthstone  and  called 
for  Talakoa.  And  he  quoth  to  Talakoa: 
"Old  man,  I  would  have  your  daughter  to 
wife." 

Being  a  full  crafty  man,  as  beseemeth  one 
of  years,  Talakoa  replied:  "Four  daughters 
have  I." 

The  tall,  fair  man  announced :  "  You  speak 
sooth,  as  well  becometh  a  full  crafty  man. 
Four  daughters  have  you,  and  it  is  Kaulualua 
that  I  would  have  to  wife." 

Saith  that  full  crafty  man,  the  father:  "How 

many  palm  trees  grow  in  thy  possession, 

and   how   many   rivers  flow   through   thy 

chiefdom  ?    Whence  comest  thou,    gentle 

326 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

sir,  for  assuredly  neither  I  nor  mine  have 
seen  the  like  of  thee  before." 

' '  Good  sooth, "  answered  the  tall,  fair  man, 
"  I  will  tell  you  no  lie,  for  I  would  have  that 
daughter  to  wife,  and  the  things  you  require 
do  well  beseem  a  full  crafty  man  that  mean- 
eth  for  his  child's  good.  I  am  the  man  of 
the  moon,  and  my  name  is  Marama." 

Then  Talakoa  and  his  daughters  looked  at 
one  another  and  were  sore  puzzled,  for  they 
knew  not  whereof  Marama  spake.  And  they 
deemed  him  a  madman;  yet  did  they  not 
laugh  him  to  scorn,  because  that  he  had  come 
a-wooing,  and  had  laid  the  fish  and  the  hare 
upon  the  hearthstone. 

"Kind  sir,  bringing  gifts,"  quoth  Tala 
koa,  "  I  say  no  lie  to  you,  but  we  know  not 
that  country  whereof  you  speak.  Pray  tell 
us  of  the  moon  and  where  is  it  situate,  and 
how  many  kumes  is  it  distant  from  here  ?  " 

"  Full  crafty  man,  father  of  her  whom  I 
would  have  to  wife,  I  will  tell  you  truly,"  an 
swered  Marama.  "The  moon  wherefrom  I 
come  is  a  mighty  island  in  the  vast  sea  of 
night,  and  it  is  distant  from  here  so  great  a 
space  that  it  were  not  to  count  the  kumes 
227 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

that  lie  between.  Exceeding  fair  is  that  isl 
and  in  that  vast  sea,  and  it  hath  mountains 
and  valleys  and  plains  and  seas  and  rivers 
and  lakes,  and  I  am  the  chief  over  all.  Atua 
made  that  island  for  me  and  put  it  in  that 
mighty  sea,  for  I  am  the  son  of  Atua,  and 
over  that  island  in  that  sea  I  shall  rule  for 
ever." 

Great  wonder  had  they  to  hear  tell  of  these 
things,  and  they  knew  now  that  Marama  was 
the  child  of  Atua,  who  made  the  universe 
and  is  the  all-god.  Then  Marama  said  on: 

"Atua  bade  me  search  and  find  me  a  wife, 
and  upon  the  stars  have  I  walked  two  hun 
dred  years,  fishing  and  hunting,  and  seeing 
maidens,  but  of  all  maidens  seen  there  is 
none  that  I  did  love.  So  now  at  last,  in 
this  island  of  this  earth,  I  have  found  Kau- 
lualua,  and  have  seen  the  pearl  of  her  beauty 
and  smelled  the  cinnamon  of  her  breath,  and 
I  would  fain  have  her  to  wife  that  she  may 
be  ruler  with  me  over  the  moon,  my  island 
in  the  vast,  black  sea  of  night." 

It  was  not  for  Talakoa,  being  of  earth  such 
as  all  human  kind,  to  gainsay  the  words  of 
Marama.  And  there  was  a  flame  in  Kau- 
228 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

lualua's  heart  and  incense  in  her  breath  and 
honey  in  her  eyes  toward  this  tall,  fair  man 
that  was  the  son  of  Atua.  So  the  old  father 
said  to  her:  "  Take  up  the  fish  and  the  hare 
and  roast  them,  my  daughter,  and  spread 
them  before  us,  and  we  will  eat  them  and  so 
pledge  our  troth,  one  to  another." 

This  thing  did  Kaulualua,  and  so  the  man 
from  the  moon  had  her  to  wife. 

That  night  they  went  from  the  home  of 
Talakoa  to  the  island  in  the  sea  of  night, 
and  Talakoa  and  the  three  maidens  watched 
for  a  signal  from  that  island,  for  Kaulualua 
told  them  she  would  build  a  fire  thereon 
that  they  might  know  when  she  was  come 
thither.  Many,  many  nights  they  watched, 
and  their  hair  grew  white,  and  Time  marked 
their  faces  with  his  fingers,  and  the  moss 
gathered  on  the  palm  trees.  At  last,  as  if 
he  would  sleep  forever,  Talakoa  laid  himself 
upon  his  mat  by  the  door  and  asked  that 
the  skies  be  opened  to  him,  for  he  was  en 
feebled  with  age. 

And  while  he  asked  this  thing  the  three 
sisters  saw  a  dim  light  afar  off  in  the  black 
sea  of  night,  and  it  was  such  a  light  as  had 
229 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

never  before  been  seen.  And  this  light  grew 
larger  and  brighter,  so  that  in  seven  nights 
it  was  thrice  the  size  of  the  largest  palm 
leaf,  and  it  lighted  up  all  that  far-off  island 
in  the  sea  of  night,  and  they  knew  that  Kau- 
lualua  and  the  moon-god  were  in  their  home 
at  last.  So  old  Talakoa  was  soothed  and 
the  skies  that  opened  unto  him  found  him 
satisfied. 

The  three  sisters  lived  long,  and  yet  two 
hundred  ages  are  gone  since  the  earth  re 
ceived  them  into  its  bosom.  Yet  still  upon 
that  island  in  the  dark  sea  of  night  abideth 
in  love  the  moon-god  with  his  bride.  Atua 
hath  been  good  to  her,  for  he  hath  given 
her  eternal  youth,  as  he  giveth  to  all  wives 
that  do  truly  love  and  serve  their  husbands. 
It  is  for  us  to  see  that  pleasant  island  where 
in  Kaulualua  liveth;  it  is  for  us  to  see  that 
when  Marama  goeth  abroad  to  hunt  or  to 
fish  his  moon-lady  sitteth  alone  and  maketh 
moan,  and  heedeth  not  her  fires;  it  is  for  us 
to  see  that  when  anon  he  cometh  back  she 
buildeth  up  those  fires  whereon  to  cook  food 
for  him,  and  presently  the  fires  grow  brighter 
and  the  whole  round  moon  island  is  lighted 
230 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

and  warmed  thereby.  In  this  wise  an  ex 
ceeding  fair  example  is  set  unto  all  wives 
of  their  duty  unto  their  mates. 

When  the  sea  singeth  to  the  sands,  when 
the  cane  beckoneth  to  the  stars,  and  when 
the  palm-leaves  whisper  to  sweet-breathed 
night,  how  pleasant  it  is,  my  brown  maiden, 
to  stand  with  thee  and  look  upon  that  island 
in  the  azure  sea  that  spreadeth  like  a  veil 
above  the  cocoa  trees.  For  there  we  see 
the  moon-lady,  and  she  awaiteth  her  dear 
lord  and  shesmileth  in  love;  and  that  grace 
warmeth  our  hearts —  your  heart  and  mine, 
O  little  maiden !  and  we  are  glad  with  a  joy 
that  knoweth  no  speaking. 


231 


Eutc  Rafter  asfr  fjia  toifc  Cm 


LUTE   BAKER   AND   HIS  WIFE  EM 


THE  Plainfield  boys  always  had  the  name 
of  being  smart,  and  I  guess  Lute  Baker 
was  just  about  the  smartest  boy  the  old 
town  ever  turned  out.  Well,  he  came  by  it 
naturally;  Judge  Baker  was  known  all  over 
western  Massachusetts  as  the  sage  of  Plain- 
field,  and  Lute's  mother  —  she  was  a  Kel 
logg  before  the  judge  married  her —  she  had 
more  faculty  than  a  dozen  of  your  girls  now 
adays,  and  her  cooking  was  talked  about 
everywhere  —  never  was  another  woman, 
as  folks  said,  could  cook  like  Miss  Baker. 
The  boys — Lute's  friends  —  used  to  hang 
around  the  back  porch  of  noonings  just  to 
get  some  of  her  doughnuts ;  she  was  always 
considerate  and  liberal  to  growing  boys. 
May  be  Lute  would  n't  have  been  so  popu 
lar  if  it  had  n't  been  for  those  doughnuts, 
235 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

and  may  be  he  would  n't  have  been  so  smart 
if  it  had  n't  been  for  all  the  good  things  his 
mother  fed  into  him.  Always  did  believe 
there  was  piety  and  wisdom  in  New  Eng 
land  victuals. 

Lute  went  to  Amherst  College  and  did 
well;  was  valedictorian;  then  he  taught 
school  a  winter,  for  Judge  Baker  said  that 
nobody  could  amount  to  much  in  the  world 
unless  he  taught  school  a  spell.  Lute  was 
set  on  being  a  lawyer,  and  so  presently  he 
went  down  to  Springfield  and  read  and 
studied  in  Judge  Morris'  office,  and  Judge 
Morris  wrote  a  letter  home  to  the  Bakers 
once  testifying  to  Lute's  "probity"  and 
"acumen"  —  things  that  are  never  heard 
tell  of  except  high  up  in  the  legal  profession. 

How  Lute  came  to  get  the  western  fever  I 
can't  say,  but  get  it  he  did,  and  one  winter 
he  up  and  piked  off  to  Chicago,  and  there 
he  hung  out  his  shingle  and  joined  a  literary 
social  and  proceeded  to  get  rich  and  famous. 
The  next  spring  Judge  Baker  fell  off  the 
woodshed  while  he  was  shingling  it,  and  it 
jarred  him  so  he  kind  of  drooped  and  pined 
round  a  spell  and  then  one  day  up  and  died. 
236 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Lute  had  to  come  back  home  and  settle  up 
the  estate. 

When  he  went  west  again  he  took  a  wife 
with  him  —  Emma  Cowles  that  was  (every 
body  called  her  Em  for  short),  pretty  as  a 
picture  and  as  likely  a  girl  as  there  was  in  the 
township.  Lute  had  always  had  a  hanker 
ing  for  Em,  and  Em  thought  there  never  was 
another  such  a  young  fellow  as  Lute;  she 
understood  him  perfectly,  having  sung  in 
the  choir  with  him  two  years.  The  young 
couple  went  west  well  provided. 

Lute  and  Em  went  to  housekeeping  in 
Chicago.  Em  wanted  to  do  her  own  work, 
but  Lute  would  n't  hear  to  it;  so  they  hired 
a  German  girl  that  was  just  over  from  the 
vineyards  of  the  Rhine  country. 

"  Lute,"  says  Em,  "  Hulda  does  n't  know 
much  about  cooking." 

"  So  I  see,"  says  Lute,  feelingly.  "  She  's 
green  as  grass;  you  '11  have  to  teach  her." 

Hulda  could  swing  a  hoe  and  wield  a 
spade  deftly,  but  of  the  cuisine  she  knew 
somewhat  less  than  nothing.  Em  had  lots 
of  patience  and  pluck,  but  she  found  teach 
ing  Hulda  how  to  cook  a  precious  hard  job. 
237 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

Lute  was  amiable  enough  at  first;  used  to 
laugh  it  off  with  a  cordial  bet  that  by  and 
by  Em  would  make  a  famous  cook  of  the 
obtuse  but  willing  immigrant.  This  moral 
backing  buoyed  Em  up  considerable,  until 
one  evening  in  an  unguarded  moment  Lute 
expressed  a  pining  for  some  doughnuts  ' '  like 
those  mother  makes,"  and  that  casual  re 
mark  made  Em  unhappy.  But  next  even 
ing  when  Lute  came  home  there  were  dough 
nuts  on  the  table  —  beautiful,  big,  plethoric 
doughnuts  that  fairly  reeked  with  the  homely, 
delicious  sentiment  of  New  England.  Lute 
ate  one.  Em  felt  hurt. 

"  I  guess  it 's  because  I  've  eaten  so  much 
else,"  explained  Lute,  "but  somehow  or 
other  they  don't  taste  like  mother's." 

Next  day  Em  fed  the  rest  of  the  dough 
nuts  to  a  poor  man  who  came  and  said  he 
was  starving.  "Thank  you,  marm,"  said 
he,  with  his  heart  full  of  gratitude  and  his 
mouth  full  of  doughnuts;  "I  ha'  n't  had  any 
thing  as  good  as  this  since  I  left  Con 
necticut  twenty  years  ago." 

That  little  subtlety  consoled  Em,  but 
still  she  found  it  hard  to  bear  up  under  her 
238 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

apparent  inability  to  do  her  duty  by  Lute's 
critical  palate.  Once  when  Lute  brought 
Col.  Hi  Thomas  home  to  dinner  they  had 
chicken  pie.  The  colonel  praised  it  and 
passed  his  plate  a  third  time. 

"Oh,  but  you  ought  to  eat  some  of  mo 
ther's  chicken  pie,"  said  Lute.  "Mother 
never  puts  an  under  crust  in  her  chicken 
pies,  and  that  makes  'em  juicier." 

Same  way  when  they  had  fried  pork  and 
potatoes;  Lute  could  not  understand  why 
the  flesh  of  the  wallowing,  carnivorous  west 
ern  hog  should  n't  be  as  white  and  firm  and 
sweet  as  the  meat  of  the  swill-fed  Yankee 
pig.  And  why  were  the  Hubbard  squashes 
so  tasteless  and  why  was  maple  syrup  so  very 
different  ?  Yes,  amid  all  his  professional  du 
ties  Lute  found  time  to  note  and  remark  upon 
this  and  other  similar  things,  and  of  course 
Em  was  —  by  implication,  at  least  —  held 
responsible  for  them  all. 

And  Em  did  try  so  hard,  so  -very  hard,  to 
correct  the  evils  and  to  answer  the  hypercrit 
ical  demands  of  Lute's  foolishly  petted  and 
spoiled  appetite.  She  warred  valorously 
with  butchers,  grocers,  and  hucksters;  she 
239 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

sent  down  east  to  Mother  Baker  for  all  the 
famous  family  recipes ;  she  wrestled  in  speech 
and  in  practice  with  that  awful  Hulda;  she 
experimented  long  and  patiently;  she  blis 
tered  her  pretty  face  and  burned  her  little 
hands  over  that  kitchen  range  —  yes,  a  slow, 
constant  martyrdom  that  conscientious  wife 
willingly  endured  for  years  in  her  enthusi 
astic  determination  to  do  her  duty  by  Lute. 
Doughnuts,  chicken-pies,  boiled  dinners, 
layer-cakes,  soda  biscuits,  flapjacks,  fish 
balls,  baked  beans,  squash  pies,  corned-beef 
hash,  dried-apple  sauce,  currant  wine,  succo 
tash,  brown  bread — how  valorously  Em 
toiled  over  them,  only  to  be  rewarded  with 
some  cruel  reminder  of  how  "  mother  "  used 
to  do  these  things!  It  was  terrible;  a  tedi 
ous  martyrdom. 

Lute  —  mind  you  —  Lute  was  not  wilfully 
cruel;  no,  he  was  simply  and  irremediably  a 
heedless  idiot  of  a  man,  just  as  every  mar 
ried  man  is,  for  a  spell,  at  least.  But  it  broke 
Em's  heart,  all  the  same. 

Lute's  mother  came  to  visit  them  when 
their  first  child  was  born,  and  she  lifted  a 
great  deal  of  trouble  off  the  patient  wife. 
240 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Old  Miss  Baker  always  liked  Em ;  had  told 
the  minister  three  years  ago  that  she  knew 
Em  would  make  Lute  a  good  Christian  wife. 
They  named  the  boy  Moses,  after  the  old 
judge  who  was  dead,  and  old  Miss  Baker 
said  he  should  have  his  gran'pa's  watch  when 
he  got  to  be  twenty-one. 

Old  Miss  Baker  always  stuck  by  Em ;  may 
be  she  remembered  how  the  old  judge  had 
talked  once  on  a  time  about  his  mother's 
cooking.  For  all  married  men  are,  as  I  have 
said,  idiotically  cruel  about  that  sort  of  thing. 
Yes,  old  Miss  Baker  braced  Em  up  wonder 
ful  ;  brought  a  lot  of  dried  catnip  out  west 
with  her  for  the  baby ;  taught  Em  how  to 
make  salt-rising  bread;  told  her  all  about 
stewing  things  and  broiling  things  and  roast 
ing  things;  showed  her  how  to  tell  the  real 
Yankee  codfish  from  the  counterfeit — oh,  she 
just  did  Em  lots  of  good,  did  old  Miss  Baker! 

The  rewards  of  virtue  may  be  slow  in  com 
ing,  but  they  are  sure  to  come.  Em's  three 
boys  —  the  three  bouncing  boys  that  came 
to  Em  and  Lute  —  those  three  boys  waxed 
fat  and  grew  up  boisterous,  blatant  appreci- 
ators  of  their  mother's  cooking.  The  way 
241 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

those  boys  did  eat  mother's  doughnuts! 
And  mother's  pies  —  wow!  Other  boys  — 
the  neighbors'  boys  —  came  round  regularly 
in  troops,  battalions,  armies,  and  like  a  con 
suming  fire  licked  up  the  wholesome  viands 
which  Em's  skill  and  liberality  provided  for 
her  own  boys'  enthusiastic  playmates.  And 
all  those  boys — there  must  have  been  mil 
lions  of 'em  —  were  living,  breathing,  vocif 
erous  testimonials  to  the  unapproachable 
excellence  of  Em's  cooking. 

Lute  got  into  politics,  and  they  elected  him 
to  the  legislature.  After  the  campaign,  need 
ing  rest,  he  took  it  into  his  head  to  run  down 
east  to  see  his  mother;  he  had  not  been  back 
home  for  eight  years.  He  took  little  Moses 
with  him.  They  were  gone  about  three 
weeks.  Gran'ma  Baker  had  made  great 
preparations  for  them ;  had  cooked  up  enough 
pies  to  last  all  winter,  and  four  plump,  be 
headed,  well-plucked,  yellow-legged  pullets 
hung  stiff  and  solemn-like  in  the  chill  pantry 
off  the  kitchen,  awaiting  the  last  succulent 
scene  of  all. 

Lute  and  the  little  boy  got  there  late  of  an 
evening.  The  dear  old  lady  was  so  glad  to 
242 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

see  them;  the  love  that  beamed  from  her 
kindly  eyes  well  nigh  melted  the  glass  in  her 
silver-bowed  specks.  The  table  was  spread 
in  the  dining-room;  the  sheet-iron  stove 
sighed  till  it  seemed  like  to  crack  with  the 
heat  of  that  hardwood  fire. 

"Why,  Lute,  you  ain't  eatin'  enough  to 
keep  a  fly  alive,"  remonstrated  old  Miss 
Baker,  when  her  son  declined  a  second  dough 
nut;  "and  what  ails  the  child?"  she  con 
tinued  ;  "ha*  n't  he  got  no  appetite  ?  Why, 
when  you  wuz  his  age,  Lute,  seemed  as  if  I 
could  n't  cook  doughnuts  fast  enough  for 
you! " 

Lute  explained  that  both  he  and  his  little 
boy  had  eaten  pretty  heartily  on  the  train 
that  day.  But  all  the  time  of  their  visit  there 
poor  old  Gran'ma  Baker  wondered  and  wor 
ried  because  they  did  n't  eat  enough  — 
seemed  to  her  as  if  western  folks  had  n't  the 
right  kind  of  appetite.  Even  the  plump  pul 
lets,  served  in  a  style  that  had  made  Miss 
Baker  famed  throughout  those  discriminat 
ing  parts  —  even  those  pullets  failed  to  awak 
en  the  expected  and  proper  enthusiasm  in 
the  visitors. 

243 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

Home  again  in  Chicago,  Lute  drew  his 
chair  up  to  the  table  with  an  eloquent  sigh 
of  relief.  As  for  little  Moses,  he  clamored 
his  delight. 

"Chicken  pie!"  he  cried,  gleefully;  and 
then  he  added  a  soulful ' '  wow !  "  as  his  eager 
eyes  fell  upon  a  plateful  of  hot,  exuberant, 
voluptuous  doughnuts. 

"  Yes,  we  are  both  glad  to  get  back,"  said 
Lute. 

"But  I  am  afraid,"  suggested  Em,  tim 
idly,  "that  gran'ma's  cooking  has  spoiled 
you." 

Little  Moses  (bless  him)  howled  an  indig 
nant,  a  wrathful  remonstrance.  "  Gran'ma 
can't  cook  worth  a  cent!  "  said  he. 

Em  expected  Lute  to  be  dreadfully  shocked, 
but  he  was  n't. 

"I  would  n't  let  her  know  it  for  all  the 
world, "remarked  Lute,  confidentially,  "but 
mother  has  lost  her  grip  on  cooking.  At 
any  rate,  her  cooking  is  n't  what  it  used  to 
be;  it  has  changed." 

Then  Em  came  bravely  to  the  rescue. 
"No,  Lute,"  says  she,  and  she  meant  it, 
"your  mother's  cooking  has  n't  changed, 
244 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

but  you  have.  The  man  has  grown  away 
from  the  boy,  and  the  tastes,  the  ways,  and 
the  delights  of  boyhood  have  no  longer  any 
fascination  for  the  man." 

' '  May  be  you  're  right, "  said  Lute.  ' '  At 
any  rate,  I  'm  free  to  say  that  your  cooking 
beats  the  world." 

Good  for  Lute!  Virtue  triumphs  and  my 
true  story  ends.  But  first  an  explanation  to 
concinnate  my  narrative. 

I  should  never  have  known  this  true  story 
if  Lute  himself  had  n't  told  it  to  me  at  the 
last  dinner  of  the  Sons  of  New  England  — 
told  it  to  me  right  before  Em,  that  dear,  pa 
tient  little  martyred  wife  of  his.  And  I 
knew  by  the  love  light  in  Em's  eyes  that  she 
was  glad  that  she  had  endured  that  martyr 
dom  for  Lute's  sake. 


245 


JOEL'S  TALK  WITH  SANTA  GLAUS 


ONE  Christmas  eve  Joel  Baker  was  in  a 
most  unhappy  mood.  He  was  lone 
some  and  miserable;  the  chimes  making 
merry  Christmas  music  outside  disturbed 
rather  than  soothed  him,  the  jingle  of  the 
sleigh-bells  fretted  him,  and  the  shrill  whist 
ling  of  the  wind  around  the  corners  of  the 
house  and  up  and  down  the  chimney  seemed 
to  grate  harshly  on  his  ears. 

"Humph,"  said  Joel,  wearily,  "Christmas 
is  nothin'  to  me;  there  was  a  time  when  it 
meant  a  great  deal,  but  that  was  long  ago  — 
fifty  years  is  a  long  stretch  to  look  back 
over.  There  is  nothin'  in  Christmas  now, 
nothin'  for  me  at  least;  it  is  so  long  since 
Santa  Claus  remembered  me  that  I  venture 
to  say  he  has  forgotten  that  there  ever  was 
such  a  person  as  Joel  Baker  in  all  the  world. 
It  used  to  be  different;  Santa  Claus  used  to 
249 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

think  a  great  deal  of  me  when  I  was  a  boy. 
Ah!  Christmas  nowadays  ain't  what  it  was 
in  the  good  old  time — no,  not  what  it  used 
to  be." 

As  Joel  was  absorbed  in  his  distressing 
thoughts  he  became  aware  very  suddenly 
that  somebody  was  entering  or  trying  to 
enter  the  room.  First  came  a  draft  of  cold 
air,  then  a  scraping,  grating  sound,  then  a 
strange  shuffling,  and  then,— yes,  then,  all 
at  once,  Joel  saw  a  pair  of  fat  legs  and  a  still 
fatter  body  dangle  down  the  chimney,  fol 
lowed  presently  by  a  long  white  beard, 
above  which  appeared  a  jolly  red  nose  and 
two  bright  twinkling  eyes,  while  over  the 
head  and  forehead  was  drawn  a  fur  cap, 
white  with  snowflakes. 

"  Ha,  ha,"  chuckled  the  fat,  jolly  stranger, 
emerging  from  the  chimney  and  standing 
well  to  one  side  of  the  hearthstone;  "ha, 
ha,  they  don't  have  the  big,  wide  chimneys 
they  used  to  build,  but  they  can't  keep  Santa 
Glaus  out  —  no,  they  can't  keep  Santa  Glaus 
out!  Ha,  ha,  ha.  Though  the  chimney 
were  no  bigger  than  a  gas  pipe,  Santa  Glaus 
would  slide  down  it!  " 
250 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

It  didn't  require  a  second  glance  to  assure 
Joel  that  the  new-comer  was  indeed  Santa 
Glaus.  Joel  knew  the  good  old  saint  —  oh, 
yes  —  and  he  had  seen  him  once  before,  and, 
although  that  was  when  Joel  was  a  little 
boy,  he  had  never  forgotten  how  Santa 
Glaus  looked.  . 

Nor  had  Santa  Glaus  forgotten  Joel,  al 
though  Joel  thought  he  had;  for  now  Santa 
Glaus  looked  kindly  at  Joel  and  smiled  and 
said:  "  Merry  Christmas  to  you,  Joel!  " 

"Thank  you,  old  Santa  Glaus,"  replied 
Joel,  "  but  I  don't  believe  it 's  going  to  be  a 
very  merry  Christmas.  It 's  been  so  long 
since  I  've  had  a  merry  Christmas  that  I 
don't  believe  I  'd  know  how  to  act  if  I  had 
one." 

"Let 's  see,"  said  Santa  Glaus,  "it  must 
be  going  on  fifty  years  since  I  saw  you  last 
—  yes,  you  were  eight  years  old  the  last 
time  I  slipped  down  the  chimney  of  the  old 
homestead  and  filled  your  stocking.  Do 
you  remember  it  ?" 

' '  I  remember  it  well, "  answered  Joel.  ' '  I 
had  made  up  my  mind  to  lie  awake  and  see 
Santa  Glaus;  I  had  heard  tell  of  you,  but 
251 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

I  'd  never  seen  you,  and  Brother  Otis  and  I 
concluded  we  'd  lie  awake  and  watch  for 
you  to  come." 

Santa  Glaus  shook  his  head  reproachfully. 

"That  was  very  wrong,"  said  he,  "for 
I  'm  so  scarey  that  if  I  'd  known  you  boys 
were  awake  1  'd  never  have  come  down  the 
chimney  at  all,  and  then  you  'd  have  had 
no  presents." 

"But  Otis  could  n't  keep  awake,"  ex 
plained  Joel.  "  We  talked  about  everythin' 
we  could  think  of,  till  father  called  out  to 
us  that  if  we  did  n't  stop  talking  he  'd  have 
to  send  one  of  us  up  into  the  attic  to  sleep 
with  the  hired  man.  So  in  less  than  five 
minutes  Otis  was  sound  asleep  and  no 
pinching  could  wake  him  up.  But  /  was 
bound  to  see  Santa  Glaus  and  I  don't  believe 
anything  would  've  put  me  to  sleep.  I 
heard  the  big  clock  in  the  sitting-room  strike 
eleven,  and  I  had  begun  wonderin'  if  you 
never  were  going  to  come,  when  all  of  a 
sudden  I  heard  the  tinkle  of  the  bells  around 
your  reindeers'  necks.  Then  I  heard  the 
reindeers  prancin'  on  thereof  and  the  sound 
of  your  sleigh-runners  cuttin'  through  the 
252 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

crust  and  slippin'  over  the  shingles.  I  was 
kind  o'  scared  and  I  covered  my  head  up 
with  the  sheet  and  quilts  —  only  I  left  a  little 
hole  so  I  could  peek  out  and  see  what  was 
goin'  on.  As  soon  as  I  saw  you  I  got  over 
bein'  scared  —  for  you  were  jolly  and  smilin' 
like,  and  you  chuckled  as  you  went  around 
to  each  stockin'  and  filled  it  up." 

'  'Yes,  I  can  remember  the  night, "  said  Santa 
Glaus.  "  I  brought  you  a  sled,  did  n't  I  ?" 

"Yes,  and  you  brought  Otis  one,  too," 
replied  Joel.  "  Mine  was  red  and  had  '  Yan 
kee  Doodle '  painted  in  black  letters  on 
the  side;  Otis'  was  black  and  had  'Snow 
Queen'  in  gilt  letters." 

"I  remember  those  sleds  distinctly,"  said 
Santa  Glaus,  "for  I  made  them  specially  for 
you  boys." 

"You  set  the  sleds  up  against  the  wall," 
continued  Joel,  "and  then  you  filled  the 
stockin's." 

"There  were  six  of 'em,  as  I  recollect?" 
said  Santa  Glaus. 

"  Let  me  see,  "queried  Joel.  "There  was 
mine,  and  Otis',  and  Elvira's,  and  Thank- 
iul's,  and  Susan  Prickett's  —  Susan  was  our 
253 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

help,  you  know.  No,  there  were  only  five, 
and,  as  I  remember,  they  were  the  biggest 
we  could  beg  or  borrer  of  Aunt  Dorcas,  who 
weighed  nigh  unto  two  hundred  pounds. 
Otis  and  I  did  n't  like  Susan  Prickett,  and  we 
were  hopin'  you  'd  put  a  cold  potato  in  her 
stockin'." 

"But  Susan  was  a  good  girl,"  remon 
strated  Santa  Glaus.  ' '  You  know  I  put  cold 
potatoes  only  in  the  stockin's  of  boys  and 
girls  who  are  bad  and  don't  believe  in  Santa 
Glaus." 

' '  At  any  rate, "  said  Joel,  ' '  you  filled  all  the 
stockin's  with  candy  and  pop-corn  and  nuts 
and  raisins,  and  I  can  remember  you  said 
you  were  afraid  you  'd  run  out  of  pop-corn 
balls  before  you  got  around.  Then  you  left 
each  of  us  a  book.  Elvira  got  the  best  one, 
which  was  'The  Garland  of  Frien'ship,' and 
had  poems  in  it  about  the  bleeding  of  hearts, 
and  so  forth.  Father  was  n't  expectin'  any 
thing,  but  you  left  him  a  new  pair  of  mittens, 
and  mother  got  a  new  fur  boa  to  wear  to 
meetin'." 

"Of  course."  said  Santa  Glaus,  "I  never 
forgot  father  and  mother." 
254 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"Well,  it  was  as  much  as  I  could  do  to 
lay  still,"  continued  Joel,  "for  I  'd  been  long- 
in'  for  a  sled,  an'  the  sight  of  that  red  sled 
with  'Yankee  Doodle'  painted  on  it  jest 
made  me  wild.  But,  somehow  or  other,  I 
began  to  get  powerful  sleepy  all  at  once,  and 
I  could  n't  keep  my  eyes  open.  The  next 
thing  I  knew  Otis  was  nudgin'  me  in  the 
ribs.  'Git  up,  Joel,'  says  he;  'it 's  Chris'- 
mas  an'  Santa  Glaus  has  been  here.'  'Merry 
Christ'mas !  Merry  Chris'mas ! '  we  cried  as 
we  tumbled  out  o'  bed.  Then  Elvira  an' 
Thankful  came  in,  not  more  'n  half  dressed, 
and  Susan  came  in,  too,  an'  we  just  made 
Rome  howl  with  '  Merry  Chris'mas!  Merry 
Chris'mas  ! '  to  each  other.  '  Ef  you  children 
don't  make  less  noise  in  there,'  cried  father, 
'  I  'II  hev  to  send  you  all  back  to  bed.'  The 
idea  of  askin'  boys  an'  girls  to  keep  quiet  on 
Chris'mas  mornin'  when  they  've  got  new 
sleds  an'  '  Garlands  of  Frien'ship ' ! " 

Santa  Glaus  chuckled;  his  rosy  cheeks 
fairly  beamed  joy. 

"Otis  an'  I  did  n't  want  any  breakfast," 
said  Joel.  "We  made  up  our  minds  that  a 
stockin'ful  of  candy  and  pop-corn  and  rai- 

255 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

sins  would  stay  us  for  a  while.  I  do  believe 
there  was  n't  buckwheat  cakes  enough  in 
the  township  to  keep  us  indoors  that  morn- 
in';  buckwheat  cakes  don't  size  up  much 
'longside  of  a  red  sled  with  '  Yankee  Doodle ' 
painted  onto  it  and  a  black  sled  named  '  Snow 
Queen.'  We  did  n't  care  how  cold  it  was  — 
so  much  the  better  for  slidin'  down  hill!  All 
the  boys  had  new  sleds  —  Lafe  Dawson,  Bill 
Holbrook,  Gum  Adams,  Rube  Playford,  Le- 
ander  Merrick,  Ezra  Purple  —  all  on  'em  had 
new  sleds  excep'  Martin  Peavey,  and  he  said 
he  calculated  Santa  Glaus  had  skipped  him 
this  year  'cause  his  father  had  broke  his  leg 
haulin'  logs  from  the  Pelham  woods  and 
had  been  kep'  indoors  six  weeks.  But  Mar 
tin  had  his  ol'  sled,  and  he  didn't  hev  to  ask 
any  odds  of  any  of  us,  neither." 

"  I  brought  Martin  a  sled  the  next  Christ 
mas,"  said  Santa  Glaus. 

"Like  as  not  — but  did  you  ever  slide 
down  hill,  Santa  Glaus  ?  I  don't  mean  such 
hills  as  they  hev  out  here  in  this  new  coun 
try,  but  one  of  them  old-fashioned  New 
England  hills  that  was  made  'specially  for 
boys  to  slide  down,  full  of  bumpers  an' 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

thank-ye-marms,  and  about  ten  times  longer 
comin'  up  than  it  is  goin'  down !  The  wind 
blew  in  our  faces  and  almos'  took  our  breath 
away.  '  Merry  Chris'mas  to  ye,  little  boys ! ' 
it  seemed  to  say,  and  it  untied  our  mufflers 
an'  whirled  the  snow  in  our  faces,  just  as  if  it 
was  a  boy,  too,  an'  wanted  to  play  with  us. 
An  ol'  crow  came  flappin'  over  us  from  the 
corn  field  beyond  the  meadow.  He  said: 
'Caw,  caw,'  when  he  saw  my  new  sled  — 
I  s'pose  he  'd  never  seen  a  red  one  before. 
Otis  had  a  hard  time  with  bis  sled  —  the 
black  one  —  an' he  wondered  why  it  would 
n't  go  as  fast  as  mine  would.  '  Hev  you 
scraped  the  paint  off 'n  the  runners  ?  "  asked 
Wralsey  Goodnow.  'Course  I  hev,'  said 
Otis ;  '  broke  my  own  knife  an'  Lute  Ingra- 
ham's  a-doin'  it,  but  it  don't  seem  to  make 
no  dif'rence  —  the  darned  ol'  thing  won't 
go!'  Then,  what  did  Simon  Buzzell  say 
but  that,  like  's  not,  it  was  because  Otis's 
sled's  name  was  'Snow  Queen.'  'Never 
did  see  a  girl  sled  that  was  worth  a  cent, 
anyway,'  sez  Simon.  Well,  now,  that  jest 
about  broke  Otis  up  in  business.  '  It  ain't  a 
girl  sled,'  sez  he,  '  and  its  name  ain't  "  Snow 
257 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

Queen  " !  I'm  a-goin'  to  call  it ' '  Dan'l  Web 
ster,"  or  "Ol'ver  Optic,"  or  "Sheriff  Rob- 
bins,"  or  after  some  other  big  man ! '  An'  the 
boys  plagued  him  so  much  about  that  pesky 
girl  sled  that  he  scratched  off  the  name,  an', 
as  I  remember,  it  did  go  better  after  that! 

"About  the  only  thing,"  continued  Joel, 
"that  marred  the  harmony  of  the  occasion, 
as  the  editor  of  the  '  Hampshire  County  Phoe 
nix  '  used  to  say,  was  the  ashes  that  Deacon 
Morris  Frisbie  sprinkled  out  in  front  of  his 
house.  He  said  he  was  n't  going  to  have 
folks  breakin'  their  necks  jest  on  account  of 
a  lot  of  frivolous  boys  that  was  goin'  to  the 
gallows  as  fas'  as  they  could!  Oh,  how  we 
hated  him !  and  we  'd  have  snowballed  him, 
too,  if  we  had  n't  been  afraid  of  the  constable 
that  lived  next  door.  But  the  ashes  did  n't 
bother  us  much,  and  every  time  we  slid  side 
saddle  we  'd  give  the  ashes  a  kick,  and  that 
sort  of  scattered  'em." 

The  bare  thought  of  this  made  Santa  Glaus 
laugh. 

"Coin1  on  about  nine  o'clock,"  said  Joel, 
"the  girls  come  along — Sister  Elvira  an' 
Thankful,  Prudence  Tucker,  Belle  Yocum, 
258 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

Sophrone  Holbrook,  Sis  Hubbard,  an'  Marthy 
Sawyer.  Marthy's  brother  Increase  wanted 
her  to  ride  on  his  sled,  but  Marthy  allowed 
that  a  red  sled  was  her  choice  every  time. 
'  I  don't  see  how  I  'm  goin'  to  hold  on,'  said 
Marthy.  '  Seems  as  if  I  would  hev  my  hands 
full  keepin'  my  things  from  blowin'  away.' 
'  Don't  worry  about  yourself,  Marthy,'  sez  I, 
'  for  if  you  '11  look  after  your  things,  I  kind 
o'  calc'late  I  '11  manage  not  to  lose  you  on 
the  way.'  Dear  Marthy — seems  as  if  I  could 
see  you  now,  with  your  tangled  hair  a-blow- 
in'  in  the  wind,  your  eyes  all  bright  and 
sparklin',  an'  your  cheeks  as  red  as  apples. 
Seems,  too,  as  if  I  could  hear  you  laughin' 
an'  callin',  jist  as  you  did  as  I  toiled  up  the 
old  New  England  hill  that  Chris'mas  morn- 
in' — a  callin' :  'Joel,  Joel,  Joel — ain't  ye  ever 
comin',  Joel?'  But  the  hill  is  long  and 
steep,  Marthy,  an'  Joel  ain't  the  boy  he  used 
to  be;  he  's  old,  an'  gray,  an'  feeble,  but 
there  's  love  an'  faith  in  his  heart,  an'  they 
kind  o'  keep  him  totterin'  tow'rds  the  voice 
he  hears  a-callin':  'Joel,  Joel,  Joel!'" 

"I  know  —  I  see  it  all,"  murmured  Santa 
Glaus,  very  softly. 

259 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

"  Oh,  that  was  so  long  ago, "  sighed  Joel ; 
"so  very  long  ago!  And  I've  had  no 
Chris'mas  since — only  once,  when  our  little 
one — Marthy's  an'  mine  —  you  remember 
him,  Santa  Glaus  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Santa  Glaus,  "a  toddling  lit 
tle  boy  with  blue  eyes — " 

' '  Like  his  mother, "  interrupted  Joel ;  "  an' 
he  was  like  her,  too — so  gentle  an'  lovin', 
only  we  called  him  Joel,  for  that  was  my 
father's  name  and  it  kind  o'  run  in  the  fam'ly. 
He  wa'  n't  more  'n  three  years  old  when  you 
came  with  your  Chris'mas  presents  for  him, 
Santa  Glaus.  We  had  told  him  about  you, 
and  he  used  to  go  to  the  chimney  every  night 
and  make  a  little  prayer  about  what  he  wanted 
you  to  bring  him.  And  you  brought  'em, 
too — a  stick-horse,  an'  a  picture-book,  an' 
some  blocks,  an'  a  drum — they  're  on  the 
shelf  in  the  closet  there,  and  his  little  Chris' 
mas  stockin'  with  'em  —  I  've  saved  'em  all, 
an'  I  've  taken  'em  down  an'  held  'em  in  my 
hands,  oh,  so  many  times!  " 

"But  when  I  came  again,"  said  Santa 
Glaus  — 

"  His  little  bed  was  empty,  an'  I  was  alone. 
260 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

It  killed  his  mother — Marthy  was  so  tender 
hearted;  she  kind  o'  drooped  an'  pined  after 
that.  So  now  they  've  been  asleep  side  by 
side  in  the  buryin'-ground  these  thirty  years. 

"That 's  why  I  'm  so  sad-like  whenever 
Chris'mas  comes,"  said  Joel,  after  a  pause. 
"The  thinkin'  of  long  ago  makes  me  bitter 
almost.  It 's  so  different  now  from  what  it 
used  to  be." 

"No,  Joel,  oh,  no,"  said  Santa  Glaus. 
"T  is  the  same  world,  and  human  nature 
is  the  same  and  always  will  be.  But  Christ 
mas  is  for  the  little  folks,  and  you,  who  are 
old  and  grizzled  now,  must  know  it  and  love 
it  only  through  the  gladness  it  brings  the  lit 
tle  ones." 

"True,"  groaned  Joel;  "but  how  may  I 
know  and  feel  this  gladness  when  I  have 
no  little  stocking  hanging  in  my  chimney 
corner — no  child  to  please  me  with  his 
prattle?  See,  I  am  alone." 

"No,  you  're  not  alone,  Joel,"  said  Santa 
Glaus.  "There  are  children  in  this  great 
city  who  would  love  and  bless  you  for  your 
goodness  if  you  but  touched  their  hearts. 
Make  them  happy,  Joel;  send  by  me  this 
261 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

night  some  gift  to  the  little  boy  in  the  old 
house  yonder — he  is  poor  and  sick ;  a  simple 
toy  will  fill  his  Christmas  with  gladness." 

"His  little  sister,  too — take  her  some 
present,"  said  Joel;  "make  them  happy  for 
me,  Santa  Glaus — you  are  right — make  them 
happy  for  me." 

How  sweetly  Joel  slept !  When  he  awoke, 
the  sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  window 
and  seemed  to  bid  him  a  merry  Christmas. 
How  contented  and  happy  Joel  felt !  It  must 
have  been  the  talk  with  Santa  Claus  that  did 
it  all;  he  had  never  known  a  sweeter  sense 
of  peace.  A  little  girl  came  out  of  the  house 
over  the  way.  She  had  a  new  doll  in  her 
arms,  and  she  sang  a  merry  little  song  and 
she  laughed  with  joy  as  she  skipped  along 
the  street.  Ay,  and  at  the  window  sat  the 
little  sick  boy,  and  the  toy  Santa  Claus  left 
him  seemed  to  have  brought  him  strength 
and  health,  for  his  eyes  sparkled  and  his 
cheeks  glowed,  and  it  was  plain  to  see  his 
heart  was  full  of  happiness. 

And,  oh!  how  the  chimes  did  ring  out, 
and  how  joyfully  they  sang  their  Christmas 
carol  that  morning !  They  sang  of  Bethlehem 
262 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

and  the  manger  and  the  Babe;  they  sang  of 
love  and  charity,  till  all  the  Christmas  air 
seemed  full  of  angel  voices. 

Carol  of  the  Christmas  morn  — 
Carol  of  the  Christ-child  born — 

Carol  to  the  list'ning  sky 
Till  it  echoes  back  again 
"  Glory  be  to  God  on  high, 
Peace  on  earth,  good  will  tow'rd  men ! " 

So  all  this  music — the  carol  of  the  chimes, 
the  sound  of  children's  voices,  the  smile  of 
the  poor  little  boy  over  the  way — all  this 
sweet  music  crept  into  Joel's  heart  that  Christ 
mas  morning;  yes,  and  with  these  sweet, 
holy  influences  came  others  so  subtile  and 
divine  that,  in  its  silent  communion  with 
them,  Joel's  heart  cried  out  amen  and  amen 
to  the  glory  of  the  Christmas  time. 


263 


¥ 
Honegomc  Eittife 


THE   LONESOME  LITTLE   SHOE 


THE  clock  was  in  ill  humor;  so  was  the 
vase.  It  was  all  on  account  of  the  lit 
tle  shoe  that  had  been  placed  on  the  mantel 
piece  that  day,  and  had  done  nothing  but  sigh 
dolorously  all  the  afternoon  and  evening. 

"Look  you  here,  neighbor,"  quoth  the 
clock,  in  petulant  tones,  "you are  sadly  mis 
taken  if  you  think  you  will  be  permitted  to 
disturb  our  peace  and  harmony  with  your 
constant  sighs  and  groans.  If  you  are  ill, 
pray  let  us  know;  otherwise,  have  done  with 
your  manifestations  of  distress." 

"Possibly  you  do  not  know  what  befell 
the  melancholy  plaque  that  intruded  his  pres 
ence  upon  us  last  week,"  said  the  vase. 
"We  pitched  him  off  the  mantelpiece,  and 
he  was  shattered  into  a  thousand  bits." 

The  little  shoe  gave  a  dreadful  shudder. 
267 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

It  could  not  help  thinking  it  had  fallen  among 
inhospitable  neighbors.  It  began  to  cry. 
The  brass  candlestick  took  pity  on  the  sob 
bing  thing,  and  declared  with  some  show 
of  temper  that  the  little  shoe  should  not  be 
imposed  on. 

"Now  tell  us  why  you  are  so  full  of  sad 
ness,"  said  the  brass  candlestick. 

"I  do  not  know  how  to  explain,"  whim 
pered  the  little  shoe.  "You  see  I  am  quite 
a  young  thing,  albeit  I  have  a  rusty  appear 
ance  and  there  is  a  hole  in  my  toes  and  my 
heel  is  badly  run  over.  I  feel  so  lonesome 
and  friendless  and  sort  of  neglected-like,  that 
it  seems  as  if  there  were  nothing  for  me  to 
do  but  sigh  and  grieve  and  weep  all  day 
long." 

"Sighing  and  weeping  do  no  good,"  re 
marked  the  vase,  philosophically. 

"  I  know  that  very  well,"  replied  the  little 
shoe;  "but  once  I  was  so  happy  that  my 
present  lonesome  lot  oppresses  me  all  the 
more  grievously." 

"You  say  you  once  were  happy  —  pray 
tell  us  all  about  it,"  demanded  the  brass  can 
dlestick. 

268 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

The  vase  was  eager  to  hear  the  little  shoe's 
story,  and  even  the  proud,  haughty  clock 
expressed  a  willingness  to  listen.  The  match 
box  came  from  the  other  end  of  the  mantel 
piece,  and  the  pen-wiper,  the  paper-cutter, 
and  the  cigar-case  gathered  around  the  little 
shoe,  and  urged  it  to  proceed  with  its  nar 
rative. 

"The  first  thing  I  can  remember  in  my 
short  life,"  said  the  little  shoe,  "was  being 
taken  from  a  large  box  in  which  there  were 
many  of  my  kind  thrown  together  in  great 
confusion.  I  found  myself  tied  with  a  slen 
der  cord  to  a  little  mate,  a  shoe  so  very  like 
me  that  you  could  not  have  told  us  apart. 
We  two  were  taken  and  put  in  a  large  win 
dow  in  the  midst  of  many  grown-up  shoes, 
and  we  had  nothing  to  do  but  gaze  out  of 
the  window  all  day  long  into  the  wide,  busy 
street.  That  was  a  very  pleasant  life.  Some 
times  the  sunbeams  would  dance  through 
the  window-panes  and  play  at  hide-and-seek 
all  over  me  and  my  little  mate;  they  would 
kiss  and  caress  us,  and  we  learned  to  love 
them  very  much  —  they  were  so  warm  and 
gentle  and  merrisome.  Sometimes  the  rain- 
269 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

drops  would  patter  against  the  window- 
panes,  singing  wild  songs  to  us,  and  clam 
oring  to  break  through  and  destroy  us  with 
their  eagerness.  When  night  came,  we 
could  see  stars  away  up  in  the  dark  sky  wink 
ing  at  us,  and  very  often  the  old  mother 
moon  stole  out  from  behind  a  cloud  to  give 
us  a  kindly  smile.  The  wind  used  to  sing 
us  lullabies,  and  in  one  corner  of  our  window 
there  was  a  little  open  space  where  the  mice 
gave  a  grand  ball  every  night  to  the  music 
of  the  crickets  and  a  blind  frog.  Altogether 
we  had  a  merry  time." 

"  I  'd  have  liked  it  all  but  the  wind,"  said 
the  brass  candlestick.  "I  don't  know  why 
it  is,  but  I  'm  dreadfully  put  out  by  the  hor 
rid  old  wind!" 

"  Many  people,"  continued  the  little  shoe, 
"used  to  stop  and  look  in  at  the  window, 
and  I  believe  my  little  mate  and  I  were  ad 
mired  more  than  any  of  our  larger  and  more 
pretentious  companions.  I  can  remember 
there  was  a  pair  of  red-top  boots  that  was 
exceedingly  jealous  of  us.  But  that  did  not 
last  long,  for  one  day  a  very  sweet  lady  came 
and  peered  in  at  the  window  and  smiled 
270 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

very  joyously  when  she  saw  me  and  my 
little  mate.  Then  I  remember  we  were 
taken  from  the  window,  and  the  lady  held 
us  in  her  hands  and  examined  us  very 
closely,  and  measured  our  various  dimen 
sions  with  a  string,  and  finally,  I  remember, 
she  said  she  would  carry  us  home.  We  did 
not  know  what  that  meant,  only  we  realized 
that  we  would  never  live  in  the  shop  win 
dow  again,  and  we  were  loath  to  be  sepa 
rated  from  the  sunbeams  and  the  mice  and 
the  other  friends  that  had  been  so  kind  to  us. " 

"  What  a  droll  little  shoe  ! "  exclaimed  the 
vase.  Whereupon  the  clock  frowned  and 
ticked  a  warning  to  the  vase  not  to  inter 
rupt  the  little  shoe  in  the  midst  of  its  divert 
ing  narrative. 

"It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you 
how  we  were  wrapped  in  paper  and  carried 
a  weary  distance,"  said  the  little  shoe;  "  it  is 
sufficient  to  my  purpose  to  say  that,  after 
what  seemed  to  us  an  interminable  journey 
and  a  cruel  banging  around,  we  were  taken 
from  the  paper  and  found  ourselves  in  a  quiet, 
cozy  room  —  yes,  in  this  very  apartment 
where  we  all  are  now!  The  sweet  lady 
271 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

held  us  in  her  lap,  and  at  the  sweet  lady's 
side  stood  a  little  child,  gazing  at  us  with 
an  expression  of  commingled  astonishment, 
admiration,  and  glee.  We  knew  the  little 
child  belonged  to  the  sweet  lady,  and  from 
the  talk  we  heard  we  knew  that  henceforth 
the  child  was  to  be  our  little  master." 

As  if  some  sudden  anguish  came  upon  it, 
hushing  its  speech,  the  little  shoe  paused  in 
its  narrative.  The  others  said  never  a  word. 
Perhaps  it  was  because  they  were  beginning 
to  understand.  The  proud,  haughty  clock 
seemed  to  be  less  imperious  for  the  moment, 
and  its  ticking  was  softer  and  more  rever 
ential. 

' '  From  that  time, "  resumed  the  little  shoe, 
"  our  little  master  and  we  were  inseparable 
during  all  the  happy  day.  We  played  and 
danced  with  him  and  wandered  everywhere 
through  the  grass,  over  the  carpets,  down 
the  yard,  up  the  street  —  ay,  everywhere  our 
little  master  went,  we  went  too,  sharing 
his  pretty  antics  and  making  music  every 
where.  Then,  when  evening  came  and  little 
master  was  put  to  sleep,  in  yonder  crib,  we 
were  set  on  the  warm  carpet  near  his  bed 
272 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

where  we  could  watch  him  while  he  slept, 
and  bid  him  good-morrow  when  the  morn 
ing  came.  Those  were  pleasant  nights,  too, 
for  no  sooner  had  little  master  fallen  asleep 
than  the  fairies  came  trooping  through  the 
keyholes  and  fluttering  down  the  chimney 
to  dance  over  his  eyes  all  night  long,  giving 
him  happy  dreams,  and  filling  his  baby  ears 
with  sweetest  music." 

"What  a  curious  conceit!  "  said  the  pen 
wiper. 

"And  is  it  true  that  fairies  dance  on  chil 
dren's  eyelids  at  night?"  asked  the  paper- 
cutter. 

"Certainly,"  the  clock  chimed  in,  "and 
they  sing  very  pretty  lullabies  and  very  cun 
ning  operettas,  too.  I  myself  have  seen  and 
heard  them." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  a  fairy  operetta," 
suggested  the  pen-wiper. 

"  I  remember  one  the  fairies  sang  my  little 
master  as  they  danced  over  his  eyelids," 
said  the  little  shoe,  "and  I  will  repeat  it  if 
you  wish." 

"Nothing  would  please  me  more,"  said 
the  pen-wiper. 

273 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

"Then  you  must  know,"  said  the  little 
shoe,  "that,  as  soon  as  my  master  fell 
asleep,  the  fairies  would  make  their  appear 
ance,  led  by  their  queen,  a  most  beautiful 
and  amiable  little  lady  no  bigger  than  a  cam 
bric  needle.  Assembling  on  the  pillow  of 
the  crib,  they  would  order  their  minstrels 
and  orchestra  to  seat  themselves  on  little 
master's  forehead.  The  minstrels  invariably 
were  the  cricket,  the  flea,  the  katydid,  and 
the  gnat,  while  the  orchestra  consisted  of 
mosquitos,  bumblebees,  and  wasps.  Once 
in  a  great  while,  on  very  important  occa 
sions,  the  fairies  would  bring  the  old  blind 
hop-toad  down  the  chimney  and  set  him  on 
the  window-sill,  where  he  would  discourse 
droll  ditties  to  the  infinite  delight  of  his 
hearers.  But  on  ordinary  occasions,  the 
fairy  queen,  whose  name  was  Taffie,  would 
lead  the  performance  in  these  pleasing  words, 
sung  to  a  very  dulcet  air: 

AN   INVITATION   TO    SLEEP 

Little  eyelids,  cease  your  winking; 

Little  orbs,  forget  to  beam; 
Little  soul,  to  slumber  sinking, 

Let  the  fairies  rule  your  dream. 
274 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

Breezes,  through  the  lattice  sweeping, 

Sing  their  lullabies  the  while — 
And  a  star-ray,  softly  creeping 

To  thy  bedside,  woos  thy  smile. 
But  no  song  nor  ray  entrancing 

Can  allure  thee  from  the  spell 
Of  the  tiny  fairies  dancing 

O'er  the  eyes  they  love  so  well. 
See,  we  come  in  countless  number — 

I,  their  queen,  and  all  my  court  — 
Haste,  my  precious  one,  to  slumber 

Which  invites  our  fairy  sport. 

"At  the  conclusion  of  this  song  Prince 
Whimwham,  a  tidy  little  gentleman  fairy  in 
pink  silk  small-clothes,  approaching  Queen 
Taffie  and  bowing  graciously,  would  say: 

Pray,  lady,  may  I  have  the  pleasure 
Of  leading  you  this  stately  measure  ? 

To  which  her  majesty  would  reply  with 
equal  graciousness  in  the  affirmative.  Then 
Prince  Whimwham  and  Queen  Taffie  would 
take  their  places  on  one  of  my  master's  eye 
lids,  and  the  other  gentleman  fairies  and 
lady  fairies  would  follow  their  example,  till 
at  last  my  master's  face  would  seem  to  be 
275 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

alive  with  these  delightful  little  beings. 
The  mosquitos  would  blow  a  shrill  blast 
on  their  trumpets,  the  orchestra  would 
strike  up,  and  then  the  festivities  would 
begin  in  earnest.  How  the  bumblebees 
would  drone,  how  the  wasps  would  buzz, 
and  how  the  mosquitos  would  blare!  It 
was  a  delightful  harmony  of  weird  sounds. 
The  strange  little  dancers  floated  hither  and 
thither  over  my  master's  baby  face,  as  light 
as  thistledowns,  and  as  graceful  as  the 
slender  plumes  they  wore  in  their  hats  and 
bonnets.  Presently  they  would  weary  of 
dancing,  and  then  the  minstrels  would  be 
commanded  to  entertain  them.  Invariably 
the  flea,  who  was  a  rattle-headed  fellow, 
would  discourse  some  such  incoherent  song 
as  this: 

COQUETRY 

Tiddle-de-dumpty,  tiddle-de-dee — 
The  spider  courted  the  frisky  flea  ; 
Tiddle-de-dumpty,  tiddle-de-doo  — 
The  flea  ran  off  with  the  bugaboo! 
"Oh,  tiddle-de-dee!" 
Said  the  frisky  flea  — 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

For  what  cared  she 
For  the  miseree 
The  spider  knew, 
When,  tiddle-de-doo, 
The  flea  ran  off  with  the  bugaboo! 

Rumpty-tumpty,  pimplety-pan  — 
The  flubdub  courted  a  catamaran 
But  timplety-topplety,  timpity-tare  — 
The  flubdub  wedded  the  big  blue  bear! 

The  fun  began 

With  a  pimplety-pan 

When  the  catamaran, 

Tore  up  a  man 

And  streaked  the  air 

With  his  gore  and  hair 
Because  the  flubdub  wedded  the  bear! 

"  I  remember  with  what  dignity  the  fairy 
queen  used  to  reprove  the  flea  for  his  inane 
levity : 

Nay,  futile  flea  ;  these  verses  you  are  making 
Disturb  the  child  —  for,  see,  he  is  awaking! 
Come,  little  cricket,  sing  your  quaintest  numbers, 
And  they,  perchance,  shall  lull  him  back  to  slumbers. 

"  Upon  this  invitation  the  cricket,  who 
is  justly  one  of  the  most  famous  songsters 

277 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

in  the  world,  would  get  his  pretty  voice  in 
tune  and  sing  as  follows: 

THE  CRICKET'S  SONG 

When  all  around  from  out  the  ground 

The  little  flowers  are  peeping, 
And  from  the  hills  the  merry  rills 

With  vernal  songs  are  leaping, 
I  sing  my  song  the  whole  day  long 

In  woodland,  hedge,  and  thicket  — 
And  sing  it,  too,  the  whole  night  through, 

For  I  'm  a  merry  cricket. 

The  children  hear  my  chirrup  clear 

As,  in  the  woodland  straying, 
They  gather  flow'rs  through  summer  hours  — 

And  then  I  hear  them  saying: 
"  Sing,  sing  away  the  livelong  day, 

Glad  songster  of  the  thicket  — 
With  your  shrill  mirth  you  gladden  earth, 

You  merry  little  cricket !  " 

When  summer  goes,  and  Christmas  snows 

Are  from  the  north  returning, 
1  quit  my  lair  and  hasten  where 

The  old  yule-log  is  burning. 
And  where  at  night  the  ruddy  light 

Of  that  old  log  is  flinging 
A  genial  joy  o'er  girl  and  boy, 

There  I  resume  my  singing. 

278 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

And,  when  they  hear  my  chirrup  clear, 

The  children  stop  their  playing  — 
With  eager  feet  they  haste  to  greet 

My  welcome  music,  saying: 
"  The  little  thing  has  come  to  sing 

Of  woodland,  hedge,  and  thicket — 
Of  summer  day  and  lambs  at  play  — 

Oh,  how  we  love  the  cricket!  " 

"This  merry  little  song  always  seemed  to 
please  everybody  except  the  gnat.  The  fair 
ies  appeared  to  regard  the  gnat  as  a  pestifer 
ous  insect,  but  a  contemptuous  pity  led  them 
to  call  upon  him  for  a  recitation,  which  in 
variably  was  in  the  following  strain : 


THE    FATE    OF   THE    FLIMFLAM 

A  flimflam  flopped  from  a  fillamaloo, 

Where  the  pollywog  pinkled  so  pale, 
And  the  pipkin  piped  a  petulant  "  pooh  " 

To  the  garrulous  gawp  of  the  gale. 
"Oh,  woe  to  the  swap  of  the  sweeping  swipe 

That  booms  on  the  bobbling  bay! " 
Snickered  the  snark  to  the  snoozing  snipe 

That  lurked  where  the  lamprey  lay. 

The  gluglug  glinked  in  the  glimmering  gloam, 
Where  the  buzbuz  bumbled  his  bee  — 

279 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

When  the  flimflam  flitted,  all  flecked  with  foam, 
From  the  sozzling  and  succulent  sea. 

"  Oh,  swither  the  swipe,  with  its  sweltering 

sweep! " 
She  swore  as  she  swayed  in  a  swoon, 

And  a  doleful  dank  dumped  over  the  deep, 
To  the  lay  of  the  limpid  loon! 

"This  was  simply  horrid,  as  you  all  will 
allow.  The  queen  and  her  fairy  followers 
were  much  relieved  when  the  honest  katy 
did  narrated  a  pleasant  moral  in  the  form  of 
a  ballad  to  this  effect : 


CONTENTMENT 

Once  on  a  time  an  old  red  hen 

Went  strutting  'round  with  pompous  clucks, 
For  she  had  little  babies  ten, 

A  part  of  which  were  tiny  ducks. 
"  T  is  very  rare  that  hens,"  said  she, 

"  Have  baby  ducks  as  well  as  chicks  — 
But  I  possess,  as  you  can  see, 

Of  chickens  four  and  ducklings  six!  " 

A  season  later,  this  old  hen 

Appeared,  still  cackling  of  her  luck, 

For,  though  she  boasted  babies  ten, 
Not  one  among  them  was  a  duck! 

280 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

"  'T  is  well,"  she  murmured,  brooding  o'er 
The  little  chicks  of  fleecy  down  — 

"  My  babies  now  will  stay  ashore, 
And,  consequently,  cannot  drown!  " 

The  following  spring  the  old  red  hen 

Clucked  just  as  proudly  as  of  yore  — 
But  lo!  her  babes  were  ducklings  ten, 

Instead  of  chickens,  as  before! 
"  T  is  better,"  said  the  old  red  hen, 

As  she  surveyed  her  waddling  brood; 
"  A  little  water  now  and  then 

Will  surely  do  my  darlings  good! " 

But  oh!  alas,  how  very  sad! 

When  gentle  spring  rolled  round  again 
The  eggs  eventuated  bad, 

And  childless  was  the  old  red  hen! 
Yet  patiently  she  bore  her  woe, 

And  still  she  wore  a  cheerful  air, 
And  said:  "T  is  best  these  things  are  so, 

For  babies  are  a  dreadful  care  !  " 

I  half  suspect  that  many  men, 

And  many,  many  women,  too, 
Could  learn  a  lesson  from  the  hen 

With  foliage  of  vermilion  hue; 
She  ne'er  presumed  to  take  offence 

At  any  fate  that  might  befall, 
But  meekly  bowed  to  Providence  — 

She  was  contented  —  that  was  all! 

281 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

"Then  the  fairies  would  resume  their 
dancing.  Each  little  gentleman  fairy  would 
bow  to  his  lady  fairy  and  sing  in  the  most 
musical  of  voices: 

Sweet  little  fairy, 

Tender  and  airy, 
Come,  let  us  dance  on  the  good  baby-eyes; 

Merrily  skipping, 

Cheerily  tripping, 
Murmur  we  ever  our  soft  lullabies. 

"And  then,  as  the  rest  danced,  the  fairy 
queen  sang  the  following  slumber-song,  ac 
companied  by  the  orchestra : 

A   FAIRY  LULLABY 

There  are  two  stars  in  yonder  steeps 
That  watch  the  baby  while  he  sleeps. 
But  while  the  baby  is  awake 

And  singing  gayly  all  day  long, 
The  little  stars  their  slumbers  take 
Lulled  by  the  music  of  his  song. 
So  sleep,  dear  tired  baby,  sleep 
While  little  stars  their  vigils  keep. 

Beside  his  loving  mother-sheep 
A  little  lambkin  is  asleep; 
282 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

What  does  he  know  of  midnight  gloom  — 

He  sleeps,  and  in  his  quiet  dreams 
He  thinks  he  plucks  the  clover  bloom 

And  drinks  at  cooling,  purling  streams. 
And  those  same  stars  the  baby  knows 
Sing  softly  to  the  lamb's  repose. 

Sleep,  little  lamb;  sleep,  little  child  — 
The  stars  are  dim  —  the  night  is  wild  ; 
But  o'er  the  cot  and  o'er  the  lea 

A  sleepless  eye  forever  beams  — 
A  shepherd  watches  over  thee 

In  all  thy  little  baby  dreams; 
The  shepherd  loves  his  tiny  sheep  — 
Sleep,  precious  little  lambkin,  sleep! 


"  That  is  very  pretty,  indeed ! "  exclaimed 
the  brass  candlestick. 

"So  it  is,"  replied  the  little  shoe,  "but 
you  should  hear  it  sung  by  the  fairy  queen ! " 

"  Did  the  operetta  end  with  that  lullaby  ?  " 
inquired  the  cigar-case. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  the  little  shoe.  "No 
sooner  had  the  queen  finished  her  lullaby 
than  an  old  gran'ma  fairy,  wearing  a  quaint 
mob-cap  and  large  spectacles,  limped  for 
ward  with  her  crutch  and  droned  out  a  cu 
rious  ballad,  which  seemed  to  be  for  the 
283 


THE  HOLY  CROSS 

special  benefit  of  the  boy  and  girl  fairies, 
very  many  of  whom  were  of  the  company. 
This  ballad  was  as  follows: 

BALLAD   OF   THE  JELLY-CAKE 

A  little  boy  whose  name  was  Tim 

Once  ate  some  jelly-cake  for  tea — 
Which  cake  did  not  agree  with  him, 

As  by  the  sequel  you  shall  see. 
"  My  darling  child,"  his  mother  said, 

"  Pray  do  not  eat  that  jelly-cake, 
For,  after  you  have  gone  to  bed, 

I  fear  't  will  make  your  stomach  ache!" 
But  foolish  little  Tim  demurred 
Unto  his  mother's  warning  word. 

That  night,  while  all  the  household  slept, 

Tim  felt  an  awful  pain,  and  then 
From  out  the  dark  a  nightmare  leapt 

And  stood  upon  his  abdomen ! 
"  I  cannot  breathe!  "  the  infant  cried  — 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Nightmare,  pity  take!  " 
"  There  is  no  mercy,"  she  replied, 

"  For  boys  who  feast  on  jelly-cake!  " 
And  so,  despite  the  moans  of  Tim, 
The  cruel  nightmare  went  for  him. 

At  first,  she  'd  tickle  Timmy's  toes 
Or  roughly  smite  his  baby  cheek  — 

284 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

And  now  she  'd  rudely  tweak  his  nose 
And  other  petty  vengeance  wreak; 

And  then,  with  hobnails  in  her  shoes 
And  her  two  horrid  eyes  aflame, 

The  mare  proceeded  to  amuse 

Herself  by  prancing  o'er  his  frame  — 

First  to  his  throbbing  brow,  and  then 

Back  to  his  little  feet  again. 

At  last,  fantastic,  wild,  and  weird, 

And  clad  in  garments  ghastly  grim, 
A  scowling  hoodoo  band  appeared 

And  joined  in  worrying  little  Tim. 
Each  member  of  this  hoodoo  horde 

Surrounded  Tim  with  fierce  ado 
And  with  long,  cruel  gimlets  bored 

His  aching  system  through  and  through, 
And  while  they  labored  all  night  long 
The  nightmare  neighed  a  dismal  song. 

Next  morning,  looking  pale  and  wild, 

Poor  little  Tim  emerged  from  bed  — 
"  Good  gracious  !  what  can  ail  the  child !" 

His  agitated  mother  said. 
"  We  live  to  learn,"  responded  he, 

"  And  1  have  lived  to  learn  to  take 
Plain  bread  and  butter  for  my  tea, 

And  never,  never,  jelly-cake  ! 
For  when  my  hulk  with  pastry  teems, 
I  must  expect  unpleasant  dreams  !  " 

285 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

"Now  you  can  imagine  this  ballad  im 
pressed  the  child  fairies  very  deeply,"  con 
tinued  the  little  shoe.  "Whenever  the 
gran'ma  fairy  sang  it,  the  little  fairies  ex 
pressed  great  surprise  that  boys  and  girls 
ever  should  think  of  eating  things  which 
occasioned  so  much  trouble.  So  the  night 
was  spent  in  singing  and  dancing,  and  our 
master  would  sleep  as  sweetly  as  you  please. 
At  last  the  lark  —  what  a  beautiful  bird  she 
is  —  would  flutter  against  the  window  panes, 
and  give  the  fairies  warning  in  these  words: 

MORNING   SONG 

The  eastern  sky  is  streaked  with  red, 

The  weary  night  is  done, 
And  from  his  distant  ocean  bed 

Rolls  up  the  morning  sun. 
The  dew,  like  tiny  silver  beads 

Bespread  o'er  velvet  green, 
Is  scattered  on  the  wakeful  meads 

By  angel  hands  unseen. 
"  Good-morrow,  robin  in  the  trees  !  " 

The  star-eyed  daisy  cries  ; 
"  Good-morrow,"  sings  the  morning  breeze 

Unto  the  ruddy  skies; 
"  Good-morrow,  every  living  thing  !  " 

Kind  Nature  seems  to  say, 

286 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

And  all  her  works  devoutly  sing 

A  hymn  to  birth  of  day, 

So,  haste,  without  delay, 
Haste,  fairy  friends,  on  silver  wing, 

And  to  your  homes  away  ! 

"But  the  fairies  could  never  leave  littJe 
master  so  unceremoniously.  Before  betak 
ing  themselves  to  their  pretty  homes  under 
the  rocks  near  the  brook,  they  would  ad 
dress  a  parting  song  to  his  eyes,  and  this 
song  they  called  a  matin  invocation : 

TO   A   SLEEPING    BABY'S    EYES 

And  thou,  twin  orbs  of  love  and  joy  ! 

Unveil  thy  glories  with  the  morn  — 
Dear  eyes,  another  day  is  born  — 

Awake,  O  little  sleeping  boy  ! 

Bright  are  the  summer  morning  skies, 
But  in  this  quiet  little  room 
There  broods  a  chill,  oppressive  gloom  — 

All  for  the  brightness  of  thine  eyes. 

Without  those  radiant  orbs  of  thine 

How  dark  this  little  world  would  be  — 
This  sweet  home-world  that  worships  thee — 

So  let  their  wondrous  glories  shine 

On  those  who  love  their  warmth  and  joy  — 

Awake,  O  sleeping  little  boy. 

287 


THE   HOLY   CROSS 

"So  that  ended  the  fairy  operetta,  did  it  ?  " 
inquired  the  match-box. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  little  shoe,  with  a  sigh 
of  regret.  "The  fairies  were  such  bewitch 
ing  creatures,  and  they  sang  so  sweetly,  I 
could  have  wished  they  would  never  stop 
their  antics  and  singing.  But,  alas !  I  fear  I 
shall  never  see  them  again." 

"What  makes  you  think  so  ?  "  asked  the 
brass  candlestick. 

"  I'm  sure  I  can't  tell,"  replied  the  little 
shoe;  "only  everything  is  so  strange-like 
and  so  changed  from  what  it  used  to  be  that 
I  hardly  know  whether  indeed  I  am  still  the 
same  little  shoe  I  used  to  be." 

"  Why,  what  can  you  mean  ?  "  queried  the 
old  clock,  with  a  puzzled  look  on  her  face. 

"  I  will  try  to  tell  you,"  said  the  little  shoe. 
"You  see,  my  mate  and  our  master  and  I 
were  great  friends ;  as  I  have  said,  we  roamed 
and  frolicked  around  together  all  day,  and 
at  night  my  little  mate  and  I  watched  at 
master's  bedside  while  he  slept.  One  day 
we  three  took  a  long  ramble,  away  up  the 
street  and  beyond  where  the  houses  were 
built,  until  we  came  into  a  beautiful  green 
288 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

field,  where  the  grass  was  very  tall  and  green, 
and  where  there  were  pretty  flowers  of  every 
kind.  Our  little  master  talked  to  the  flowers 
and  they  answered  him,  and  we  all  had  a 
merry  time  in  the  meadow  that  afternoon, 
I  can  tell  you.  '  Don't  go  away,  little  child,' 
cried  the  daisies,  '  but  stay  and  be  our 
playfellow  always.'  A  butterfly  came  and 
perched  on  our  master's  hand,  and  looked 
up  and  smiled,  and  said:  '  I  'm  not  afraid  of 
you;  you  would  n't  hurt  me,  would  you? 
A  little  mouse  told  us  there  was  a  thrush's 
nest  in  the  bush  yonder,  and  we  hurried  to 
see  it.  The  lady  thrush  was  singing  her 
four  babies  to  sleep.  They  were  strange- 
looking  babies,  with  their  gaping  mouths, 
bulbing  eyes,  and  scant  feathers!  'Do  not 
wake  them  up,'  protested  the  lady  thrush. 
'  Go  a  little  further  on  and  you  will  come  to 
the  brook.  I  will  join  you  presently.'  So 
we  went  to  the  brook." 

"Oh,  but  I  would  have  been  afraid," sug 
gested  the  pen-wiper. 

' '  Afraid  of  the  brook !  "  cried  the  little  shoe. 
"Oh,  no;  what  could  be  prettier  than  the 
brook !  We  heard  it  singing  in  the  distance. 
289 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

We  called  to  it  and  it  bade  us  welcome. 
How  it  smiled  in  the  sunshine !  How  restless 
and  furtive  and  nimble  it  was,  yet  full  of 
merry  prattling  and  noisy  song.  Our  master 
was  overjoyed.  He  had  never  seen  the 
brook  before;  nor  had  we,  for  that  matter. 
'  Let  me  cool  your  little  feet,'  said  the  brook, 
and,  without  replying,  our  master  waded 
knee-deep  into  the  brook.  In  an  instant  we 
were  wet  through  —  my  mate  and  I ;  but 
how  deliciously  cool  it  was  here  in  the 
brook,  and  how  smooth  and  bright  the  peb 
bles  were !  One  of  the  pebbles  told  me  it  had 
come  many,  many  miles  that  day  from  its 
home  in  the  hills  where  the  brook  was  born. " 

"Pooh,  I  don't  believe  it,"  sneered  the 
vase. 

"Presently  our  master  toddled  back  from 
out  the  brook,"  continued  the  little  shoe, 
heedless  of  the  vase's  interruption,  "and  sat 
among  the  cowslips  and  buttercups  on  the 
bank.  The  brook  sang  on  as  merrily  as  be 
fore.  '  Would  you  like  to  go  sailing  ? '  asked 
our  master  of  my  mate.  '  Indeed  I  would,' 
replied  my  mate,  and  so  our  master  pulled 
my  mate  from  his  little  foot  and  set  it  afloat 
390 


AND   OTHER  TALES 

upon  the  dancing  waves  of  the  brook.  My 
mate  was  not  the  least  alarmed.  It  spun 
around  gayly  several  times  at  first  and  then 
glided  rapidly  away.  The  butterfly  hastened 
and  alighted  upon  the  merry  little  craft. 
'Where  are  you  going?'  I  cried.  'I  am 
going  down  to  the  sea,'  replied  my  little 
mate,  with  laughter.  '  And  I  am  going  to 
marry  the  rose  in  the  far-away  south,'  cried 
the  butterfly.  '  But  will  you  not  come  back  ?  ' 
I  cried.  They  answered  me,  but  they  were 
so  far  away  I  could  not  hear  them.  It  was 
very  distressing,  and  I  grieved  exceedingly. 
Then,  all  at  once,  I  discovered  my  little 
master  was  asleep,  fast  asleep  among  the 
cowslips  and  buttercups.  I  did  not  try  to 
wake  him  —  only  I  felt  very  miserable,  for  I 
was  so  cold  and  wet.  Presently  the  lady 
thrush  came,  as  she  had  said  she  would. 
'The  child  is  asleep  —  he  will  be  ill — I 
must  hasten  to  tell  his  mother, 'she  cried, 
and  away  she  flew." 

"  And  was  he  sick  ?"  asked  the  vase. 

"  I  do  not  know,"  said  the  little  shoe.  "  I 
can  remember  it  was  late  that  evening  when 
the  sweet  lady  and  others  came  and  took  us 
291 


THE   HOLY  CROSS 

upand  carried  us  back  home,  to  this  very  room. 
Then  I  was  pulled  off  very  unceremoniously 
and  thrown  under  my  little  master's  bed,  and 
I  never  saw  my  little  master  after  that. 

"How  very  strange!"  exclaimed  the 
match-safe. 

"Very,  very  strange,"  repeated  the  shoe. 
"  For  many  days  and  nights  I  lay  under  the 
crib  all  alone.  I  could  hear  my  little  master 
sighing  and  talking  as  if  in  a  dream.  Some 
times  he  spoke  of  me,  and  of  the  brook,  and 
of  my  little  mate  dancing  to  the  sea,  and  one 
night  he  breathed  very  loud  and  quick  and 
he  cried  out  and  seemed  to  struggle,  and 
then,  all  at  once,  he  stopped,  and  I  could  hear 
the  sweet  lady  weeping.  But  I  remember 
all  this  very  faintly.  I  was  hoping  the  fair 
ies  would  come  back,  but  they  never  came. 

"I  remember,"  resumed  the  little  shoe, 
after  a  solemn  pause,  "I  remember  how, 
after  a  long,  long  time,  the  sweet  lady  came 
and  drew  me  from  under  the  crib  and  held 
me  in  her  lap  and  kissed  me  and  wept  over 
me.  Then  she  put  me  in  a  dark,  lonesome 
drawer,  where  there  were  dresses  and  stock 
ings  and  the  little  hat  my  master  used  to 
292 


AND  OTHER  TALES 

wear.  There  I  lived,  oh !  such  a  weary  time, 
and  we  talked  — the  dresses,  the  stockings, 
the  hat,  and  I  did  —  about  our  little  master, 
and  we  wondered  that  he  never  came.  And 
every  little  while  the  sweet  lady  would  take 
us  from  the  drawer  and  caress  us,  and  we 
saw  that  she  was  pale  and  that  her  eyes  were 
red  with  weeping." 

"But  has  your  little  master  never  come 
back!  "  asked  the  old  clock. 

"Not  yet,"  said  the  little  shoe,  "  and  that 
is  why  I  am  so  very  lonesome.  Sometimes 
I  think  he  has  gone  down  to  the  sea  in  search 
of  my  little  mate  and  that  the  two  will  come 
back  together.  But  I  do  not  understand  it. 
The  sweet  lady  took  me  from  the  drawer 
to-day  and  kissed  me  and  set  me  here  on 
the  mantelpiece." 

' '  You  don't  mean  to  say  she  kissed  you  ?  " 
cried  the  haughty  vase,  "you  horrid  little 
stumped-out  shoe! " 

"Indeed  she  did,"  insisted  the  lonesome 
little  shoe,  "  and  1  know  she  loves  me.  But 
why  she  loves  me  and  kisses  me  and  weeps 
over  me  I  do  not  know.  It  is  all  very 
strange.  I  do  not  understand  it  at  all." 
293 


DATE  DUE 


FEE  1 


GAYLORD 


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